I forced a faint smile, my throat burning.
Back when my ex-boyfriend cheated on me, he took private photos of me. I nearly fell into depression and almost jumped off a building. It was Chloe who held my shoulders, crying as she comforted me, "Don't be scared. I'll always be by your side." She pulled me out of that darkness.
There was guilt in her eyes. Remorse.
I thought she was hurting for me.
Only later did I find out that the person my ex cheated with was my own drunk best friend. That's why she felt so guilty.
Even though I was in pain, I pretended not to know, just to spare her feelings.
But reality slapped me hard across the face.
She didn't just go after my ex-boyfriend. She went after my fiancé, too.
"Evelyn, I'm so sorry. I didn't know Nathan was your boyfriend…"
Chloe's eyes turned red. She reached out to hug me.
"Don't touch me!"
A wave of disgust hit me. By the time I realized what I was doing, my hand had already slapped her across the face.
Nathan shoved me hard. His eyes were filled with rage.
"Evelyn! What the hell is wrong with you?"
I fell straight to the floor. My knee split open, tearing off a bloody chunk of skin. The pain made tears stream down my face.
Nathan glared down at me, cold disgust rising in his eyes.
"I pursued Chloe," he said. "I'm the one who cheated on you. So why are you hitting her?
"She's been nothing but guilty about this. She cried and begged me not to break up with my girlfriend. When she found out you were short on money, she sold her newest Chanel bag and her limited-edition Dior lipstick. When you collapsed from exhaustion and ended up in the hospital, she couldn't eat or sleep on that luxury cruise—she was desperate to rush back and take care of you.
"Tell me, Evelyn—what has Chloe ever done to you?"
Nathan's angry voice buzzed in my ears. My vision was blurry with tears.
The only reason I was short on money and collapsed from overwork was because of him.
But in his eyes, all the pain and suffering I had been through mattered less than Chloe just furrowing her brow.
She stole my boyfriend. And somehow, it had all become my fault.
We were together for five years. They didn't add up to three months with her.
I stumbled back to the rundown apartment in a daze.
On the table sat a couple's photo. In it, I was smiling at the camera. He had his arm around my waist, his head lowered, saying he would love me forever.
The matching pajamas on the bed—he had picked them out with me.
The red scarf—his birthday gift to me, knitted with his own hands.
The memories shattered, piece by piece, turning into countless blades that cut me until I bled.
Those moments had been so painfully bright.
I wiped away my tears. I ripped the photo apart with all my strength. Then I picked up my phone and dialed a familiar number.
"I accept your terms," I said. "But you have to help me do one thing first."
