Adeline Nixon POV:
He tried to stop me, of course. "Adeline, don't be ridiculous! Where are you going?" His hand clamped around my arm, his grip surprisingly strong.
I didn't turn around. I just pulled my arm free, my movements precise and deliberate. "Away from you, Ethan."
His anger flared, then receded into that familiar, dismissive annoyance. "Fine, walk out. You always do this. Get a little upset, then storm off. But you always come back." He sounded so sure, so arrogant, convinced that I was a predictable variable in his perfectly managed life.
That was Ethan' s way. When conflict arose, he' d either explode in anger or, more often, just ignore it. He' d disappear into work, into meetings, into his phone. He' d leave me to stew in my own feelings, convinced that if he didn't acknowledge the problem, it would simply cease to exist. He thought silence equalled resolution.
But I remembered every word, every slight, every moment of neglect. They were etched onto my soul, a map of the slow, painful decay of our relationship.
The next day, I signed the lease agreement for my new bakery space in Portland. It was a small, charming storefront, far from the glitz and noise of LA.
"Are you really doing this, Addy?" Bridgette, my best friend, asked, her voice laced with concern, but also a hint of excitement. "Leaving everything here?"
"Everything that matters to him, maybe," I replied, a sting of old hurt in my words. "But not everything that matters to me."
I' d come to LA for Ethan, following him like a lost puppy. He was a struggling actor then, and I, a fresh culinary school graduate, found a job at a high-end patisserie. We were broke, sharing ramen noodles and dreams in a tiny studio apartment. I remembered one night, a storm had knocked out the power, and we were terrified. He held me, his arms tight, promising me the world. He' d said he' d never let anything hurt me, that I was his anchor.
He was so dedicated to his craft, so consumed by the need to succeed. And I admired that. I truly did. But somewhere along the line, that dedication turned into obsession, and I became secondary. A prop.
My anxiety, a constant companion since childhood, worsened with his rise to fame. My mother had left when I was six, a gaping wound that never truly healed. She' d promised to come back, but never did. That abandonment shaped me, made me desperate for connection, for someone to choose me, to stay. Ethan, in his early, struggling days, had filled that void. He' d made me feel chosen.
But as his career soared, so did my fear. His on-screen kisses, his intense chemistry with co-stars, it all felt too real. I remembered one particularly steamy love scene from his breakout film. It was just acting, he' d insisted. "It's my job, Adeline. It' s not real." But the way he looked at his co-star, the way their bodies moved together, it sent a cold dread through me.
I' d tried to call him after that, needing reassurance. He' d sent me to voicemail. Later, he called back, annoyed. "Adeline, I told you, I'm busy. Don't call me when I'm working." He' d made me feel like an inconvenience, an obstacle to his success. And then, the gaslighting. "You' re being so insecure. Do you really think I' d throw away everything for a fake kiss on screen? You need to trust me."
I trusted him, I really did. Or I tried to. But the constant whispers, the lingering touches, the way he seemed to morph into his characters, blurring the lines between reality and fiction, it was draining me. It was making me question my sanity. I began to check his phone, to scroll through his social media, looking for confirmation of my fears, or reassurance that I was wrong. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't stop.
He caught me once. His face, usually so composed, was contorted with disgust. "Adeline, how could you? After everything I told you? Don't you trust me at all?" He made me feel like the villain, the one who was destroying our relationship with my "paranoia." He made me apologize. I did. Because I was terrified of losing him, terrified of being abandoned again.
But that night, on my birthday, seeing Keira' s text, seeing his effortless lie, it was clear. The promises he' d made, the reassurances he' d whispered, they were all empty. He hadn't just forgotten my birthday; he'd actively chosen someone else over me, on a day that was supposed to be mine. He wasn' t just neglecting me; he was betraying me. And I was done.
