Owen frowned, as if my breakup a year ago were some tantrum I'd thrown out of immaturity.
At the same time, he was showing off his accomplishments.
All of it sounded ridiculous and grating to my ears.
“Owen, we already broke up.”
“Do you understand what breaking up means?”
My face was cold, and I didn't so much as glance at him when I spoke.
Back when Owen and I were in love, I'd actually liked that face of his.
Now, seeing it again, all I felt was irritation and the urge to look away.
“Margaret, don't I know you? There's no way you'd actually leave me.”
“Fine, fine. I'll say I was wrong, okay? Now hurry up and take the step down while I'm offering. This chance won't come around again.”
Arrogant and self-important—every word reeking of smug, patronizing entitlement.
“Owen, I came here specifically to make this clear to you.”
“When I broke up with you, I meant it. It wasn't a tantrum. It wasn't spite. There is no going back.”
“So from now on, stop harassing me.”
“Are we clear?”
I set down my chopsticks, stared straight into those eyes, and said every word like I was hammering it in.
Owen's smile froze on his face, and whatever he'd been about to say died in his throat.
“Is this still about Rachel? I ended things with her. For real this time.”
“Maggie, I really do want to marry you.”
I'd heard that line countless times.
Believed it every single time, before.
Now it just sounded absurd.
Owen and I had been together since freshman year. Right after graduation, he proposed.
“Maggie, you're the only one for me. For the rest of my life.”
That one sentence trapped me for years.
To help Owen get a foothold in the city, I begged my parents to pull strings and get him into a white-shoe law firm.
“Maggie, just wait a little longer.”
“Once I make partner, I'll marry you. I want your parents to see I'm worth something!”
I said yes, and started working my parents' circle to bring him clients.
Owen delivered. Everyone at the firm thought highly of him.
He made partner in under two years.
I thought the hard part was behind us, that everything was finally settled. That was when Owen changed.
He started going out constantly, entertaining at one event after another, staying out all night. And when he came home, there was always something on him that shouldn't have been there.
I confronted him more than once. The fights were explosive, hysterical, constant.
“What are you making a scene about!”
“Everything I'm doing is for our future!”
“It's networking. Don't you get that?”
Owen would snap at me, insisting there was nothing between him and those women.
I couldn't move forward, couldn't go back. Everything I'd already given up was making every decision for me.
So I forgave him, again and again. Chose to believe him, again and again—even when the sadness surged up in the middle of the night and drowned me. Believing was all I had left.
Then I started finding things. In his car, in his coat pockets.
Lipstick. Stockings. Underwear. A hair clip. Even a used condom.
Fight after fight drained almost everything I had.
And every single time, Owen would calm me down the same way: by dangling marriage.
“Margaret, I really do want to marry you.”
“Why do you always have to jump at shadows and start problems out of nothing?”
In Owen's eyes, none of it mattered enough to affect what we had.
“What guy out there doesn't have a few women on the side?”
“Why do you always have to blow everything out of proportion?”
Years of that kind of constant pressure ground away at who I was until I couldn't recognize myself.
I kept retreating, tolerating one humiliating thing after another.
The worst fight happened on my birthday. Owen never came home that night. But my phone lit up with a video of him checking into a hotel room with someone else.
