So I was the only one keeping the day.
I cut into the cake and took a bite.
Too sweet. Sweet to the point of being cloying, cloying to the point of nausea.
I sat there for a long time, not moving.
Then I dumped the cake and the food into the trash.
At eleven that night, Carter came home.
He looked exhausted, but there was a light flickering in his eyes.
"Violet, Pamela's set is incredible. The investors are thrilled. They've decided to expand her solo exhibition."
He'd forgotten completely what day it was.
I was sitting at the computer, sorting through my work files.
"Congratulations."
Carter saw the food in the trash, and his brow furrowed.
"That's all you ate tonight? I told you to make yourself something decent."
"I didn't stand you up on purpose. Things were complicated on Pamela's end. It's her first time carrying a project, and the pressure's enormous."
He reached out to hug me. I stepped aside.
"Violet, do you really have to protest with this cold-shoulder routine?"
"I already said I'd make it up to you tomorrow."
I turned and looked at him.
"I'm not making a scene."
"I really do mean it. Congratulations."
A flare of irritation crossed his face.
"Fine, you're not making a scene." He let out a cold laugh. "Then I won't bother making it up tomorrow either. You don't care anyway."
He turned and walked toward the study.
The door slammed shut behind him.
I looked at the study door and opened the apartment rental app.
My finger scrolled, then stopped on a city two thousand kilometers away.
Southport.
There was a magazine there I'd always wanted to work for.
Over the next few days, Carter all but lived at the studio.
He was in the final sprint for his photography exhibition.
Friday afternoon, Carter's assistant called me.
"Violet, Carter's stomach is acting up. He's in so much pain he's covered in cold sweat, but he won't go to the hospital. Could you make some soup and bring it over?"
I almost refused. But then I thought of the empty box of stomach medicine in his drawer, and I went into the kitchen without a word.
One last time, I told myself.
I pushed open the studio door. Inside, everyone was busy.
Carrying the thermal container, I headed straight for Carter's lounge.
The door wasn't fully closed. A gap had been left open.
I was about to push it when I caught the scene inside.
Pamela was wearing a wine-red gown, turning in slow circles in front of the full-length mirror.
Carter's face was pale, but his eyes were soft.
"Does it look good?"
Pamela turned her head to ask him.
"It looks good," Carter said with a smile. "That dress really suits your skin tone."
My breath caught for a beat.
That dress. Carter had bought it last month on a business trip.
He'd sent me a photo at the time, said he'd seen it and thought it would look perfect on me, so he'd bought it as an early anniversary gift.
But after he came back, the dress never appeared again.
I'd assumed he'd forgotten.
It turned out it had been put on someone else.
"But this was meant for Violet, wasn't it?"
Pamela lowered her head, her tone a little awkward.
Carter rubbed the bridge of his nose, his voice low.
"You need it for the audition today. Just wear it this once. I'll buy her a new one later. She won't hold something like this against you."
I drew a deep breath and pushed the door open.
The moment Pamela saw me, the color drained from her face.
"Violet, let me explain, I was only trying it on."
Carter froze too, a flicker of panic in his eyes.
"Why are you here?"
I set the thermal container on the table.
"Your assistant said your stomach was hurting."
"It's nothing serious. Sorry to make you come all this way."
