Just then, a familiar voice drifted in from outside:
"Baby, I'm home! I brought you that mango mousse you love."
Stacy's eyes lit up instantly. She bounced toward the door like an eager puppy and threw herself at Miles, clinging to him like a koala.
I stood frozen, a bitter ache spreading from my chest to my throat.
Back when Miles and I were together, I'd wanted to hold his hand. Even when no one was around, he'd subtly pull away, frowning. "We need to maintain appearances."
But with Stacy? He let her hang all over him without a flicker of impatience.
I let out a self-deprecating laugh. So this was the difference between loving someone and not.
"Why are you so good to me?" Stacy cooed, pawing at his cheek.
Miles leaned down, touching his nose to hers. His voice dripped with affection. "You're my future wife. Of course I'm good to you."
The next second, his gaze swept into the room. The moment our eyes met, the smile on his face froze.
Stacy noticed something was off. She followed his line of sight and turned to look at me.
"Oh no, why didn't you warn me? There's someone else here!" She swatted his arm playfully. "Put me down!"
Miles finally set her down.
But he wasn't looking at her. He was staring straight at me.
Those eyes were ice-cold—a silent warning not to expose anything.
Looking at him like that, the bitterness I'd been choking back finally broke free.
"Miles, don't you think you owe me an explanation?"
The moment I spoke, Stacy whipped around, her face a picture of surprise.
"Oh! So you're not the cleaning lady?"
She paused, as if something had just clicked. "Ah, I get it now. You must be Marilyn Swanson."
I froze, about to ask how she knew my name, when she continued:
"You're always calling Miles, aren't you? I was right there listening the whole time."
"I know all about you two. I know you've had a crush on him for years." She tilted her head, eyes wide with mock innocence. "But I never imagined you'd actually have the nerve to show up at our home."
Her words hit me like a bucket of ice water. My ears rang. Everything around me seemed to lose its sound.
So that was why. Every time I'd called Miles, every video chat—he'd always said he was busy, his voice impatient, rushing me to hang up, telling me not to bother him.
Stacy had been right there beside him the entire time.
My chest felt like it was caving in. It took me a long moment to steady myself. I lifted my gaze to Miles and spoke, each word deliberate:
"Miles. Tell her exactly what I am to you."
Even now, some part of me clung to hope.
If he would just admit I was his girlfriend—four years of long-distance—I would treat this as a misunderstanding. I would forgive him.
But all he did was frown. He reached for my arm, trying to push me toward the door, his voice a low hiss:
"Stop making a scene. We can talk outside."
I wrenched my arm free, my eyes burning. "I'm the one making a scene?"
"You're the one who's a coward! You're the one playing both of us! You're the one who lied to me for four years!"
I lost control completely. I swept my arm across the coffee table, sending the matching couple's mugs crashing to the floor. Then I grabbed the couple's pajamas hanging on the wardrobe and hurled them down.
Stacy let out a shriek.
Miles's expression turned thunderous.
