Marissa’s heels clattered against the marble as she disappeared down the hallway, leaving me alone with the suffocating echo of her words. I gripped the edge of the counter until my knuckles turned pale, the cool stone biting into my palms. The dim light above the mirror painted my reflection in uneven shadows—hollow eyes, smeared makeup, a stranger wearing my face.
Seven years.
Seven years spent in that bed—laughing, dreaming, believing him. The first time he whispered he loved me. The countless Sunday mornings when sunlight filtered through our curtains and he traced lazy patterns along my skin. All of it shattered, poisoned, soiled.
My stomach twisted violently. Tuesday. While I’d been sitting in that photography workshop, learning about aperture and composition, thinking about capturing our future together, he’d been—
My body convulsed, and I lurched toward the toilet. Nothing came out—just harsh, empty heaves that scraped my throat raw.
When the shaking stopped, I pressed my forehead against the cool counter, breathing shallowly. I refused to cry. Not here. Not in her house. Not where anyone could see the ruin she’d caused and call it victory.
The same bed. Our bed. The sheets I’d worked overtime to afford because he once said he loved the feel of silk. He’d taken her there on purpose, destroying every memory stitched into that fabric.
My reflection blurred. The woman in the mirror looked broken—but she also looked done.
I straightened. Smoothed my dress. Pinned back my hair. My eyes still burned, but I blinked the tears away. They wouldn’t see me fall apart. Not tonight.
Seven years of love, erased in one act of betrayal.
I walked back into the dining room, each step feeling heavier than the last. Nathaniel and Marissa sat opposite each other, laughing softly over bowls of steaming soup. The perfect pair. My stomach clenched.
Sliding into the empty seat beside him, I felt the tension ripple through his body. His jaw tightened, his shoulders stiffened. The air was so thick it nearly hummed.
Marissa’s red lips twisted into that smug little smile, but as soon as Nathaniel glanced her way, her face transformed—wide-eyed, wounded, trembling like a porcelain doll. My hands curled into fists beneath the table.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Nathaniel’s words sliced through the chatter, cold and sharp.
I blinked. “What are you talking about?”
He slammed his hand down, rattling the silverware. “Don’t act clueless! How could you say something so cruel about Marissa’s mother? She just died, and you—what kind of person does that?”
The world tilted. “I… I didn’t say anything about—”
“Enough!” His voice cracked like thunder. “Marissa told me everything that happened in the bathroom. I didn’t want to believe it, but you’ve proven me wrong.”
My mouth went dry. I turned toward Marissa, who dabbed delicately at her eyes with a napkin, every motion rehearsed. And Nathaniel—Nathaniel looked at me like I was filth beneath his shoe.
The same man who had kissed my forehead last night and whispered he loved me now stared at me like I was the villain of his story. Seven years dissolved in the blink of an eye.
A hush fell over the table. Forks paused midair. Whispered murmurs floated around us, hot with judgment. My skin burned.
Marissa let out a small, trembling sigh. “No, Nathaniel, please. Don’t be angry with her.” Her voice shook, soft and syrupy. “She’s just hurting. We shouldn’t make a scene.”
Her words crawled under my skin. Every tear, every waver in her tone—a perfectly crafted performance.
“Enough!” I snapped, my voice raw. “Stop pretending! Stop your fake crying!”
The crack of his palm came before I even registered he’d moved.
The sound echoed, clean and cruel. My cheek burned. But the pain wasn’t what broke me—it was the look in his eyes. Disgust. Disappointment. Hate.
Marissa gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh God… I need air,” she whispered, stumbling to her feet. Her tears glittered under the chandelier as she fled.
“Marissa, wait!” Nathaniel called, shoving his chair back so hard it toppled. He didn’t even glance my way as he ran after her, leaving me alone in a room full of staring faces.
…
I barely remembered leaving the penthouse. My legs carried me to the street, my pulse hammering in my ears. The cool night wind hit my cheek, soothing the throbbing spot where his hand had landed.
A cab rolled by, headlights sweeping across the pavement. I raised a trembling hand, and it stopped beside me.
“Where to, miss?” the driver asked.
I muttered my address and slumped into the backseat. The door clicked shut, muffling the noise of the city.
Outside, the neon lights smeared into color streaks through my tears. Each sob tore through me harder than the last until I was gasping, empty, exhausted.
Nine years ago, I’d sworn I’d never let anyone break me again. I’d run from raised voices and fists, from the house that suffocated me. Yet here I was—crying in the back of a taxi because I’d trusted another man to treat me better.
No more.
I swiped the tears from my face, rough and angry. I wasn’t going to be that girl again—the girl who begged for love that hurt her.
My phone felt cold in my palm as I scrolled through my contacts. There it was—the number I’d never had the courage to erase.
Adrian.
The name blurred through my tears. My brother. The one who’d tried to protect me from everything, who’d taken the blows so I could escape. The one I’d left behind.
My thumb hovered for a long moment. Then I pressed call.
One ring. Two.
The sound of my heartbeat filled the cab.
Then a click.
Silence hung heavy between us before a voice—deep, steady, and painfully familiar—broke through.
“…Eliza?”
