An Epitaph for Our Love

During our wedding rehearsal dinner, my fiancé Caleb’s adopted sister, Scarlett, called, her voice trembling as she claimed to be having a “panic attack” all alone at home.

I suggested he call a private car to take her to the emergency room or contact her therapist.

Instead, Caleb’s fingers dug into my wrist, his eyes glacial. “Ava, can’t you have a shred of compassion?”

“Scarlett is the one person I swore to protect for the rest of my life,” he said, his voice raw. “Only I can calm her down.”

And just like that, he abandoned a room full of our friends and family, bolting from the restaurant without a backward glance.

Returning late to our penthouse on Central Park West, the first thing I saw was a trail of discarded clothes. A trail of discarded clothes led from the entrance, and I could hear suppressed, heavy panting coming from the master bedroom.

I pushed open the door and saw Caleb pinning Scarlett against the wall. His white shirt was ripped open, her fingers tangled in his sweat-dampened hair.

Our eyes met. Without a word, he shoved me out of the room and slammed the door. The click of the lock was an epitaph for our five-year love story.

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1

The bruise on my wrist throbbed, a dull counterpoint to the unending sound of muffled moans and the rhythmic thud of bodies against the wall from the bedroom where Caleb was with Scarlett.

I stared out at the glittering New York City nightscape, numbly pouring one glass of whiskey after another.

The whiskey burned a path down my throat, but it was a dull ache compared to the chasm cracking open in my chest.

The door finally opened.

Caleb finally stumbled out, his hair a mess and his expression dazed.

His shirt hung open, and a dark bruise bloomed on his neck—a mark left by the strap of the silk nightgown he’d bought for me.

And Scarlett, wrapped in my favorite cashmere robe, was nestled against him as if she belonged there.

She sauntered over to me, her voice a venomous whisper in my ear. “You have exquisite taste, Ava.”

The air in the room crackled and froze.

Caleb finally saw me and reached out, but he was drenched in the cloying scent of another woman’s perfume, mingled with the sour, musky scent of sex.

I recoiled as if I’d been burned, knocking over the bar cart behind me.

The shattering of glass ripped through the tense silence.

“Disgusting,” I heard myself say.

My voice was jarringly sharp in the sudden quiet. Caleb’s expression hardened. “Do you have to be like this, Ava? You know Scarlett’s situation.”

I let out a cold laugh, gesturing to the fresh marks on his neck. “Her situation? Is this part of the treatment? Starring in your own twisted drama to save your sister? My God, Caleb, you’re just so noble.”

“Do you think Scarlett would have had a breakdown if you weren’t always pushing her buttons, Ava?” he shot back. “It was an accident. We’re still getting married, and I’ll make it up to you. Just drop it.”

I raised my glass in a mock toast. “Congratulations, Mr. Hawthorne. You’ve successfully comforted your sister. Here’s to a lifetime of happiness for the both of you.”

Caleb’s patience snapped. “Ava, have you made enough of a scene? She’s my sister!”

Scarlett suddenly let out a weak whimper from his side. “Caleb, I… I don’t feel well again…”

He immediately turned back to her. As he guided Scarlett back toward the bedroom, he threw a cold command over his shoulder. “You can sleep in the guest room tonight, Ava. Don’t disturb Scarlett.”