“Camila, where’s the wine opener?”
Kane’s voice echoed through the speakerphone, sharp and impatient, like he was asking a bartender, not his partner.
I looked at the perfectly set table—white linen, candles casting flickering shadows, and the aroma of my grandmother’s coq au vin wafting through the air. It was all so… pathetic.
It’s in the drawer, where it’s always been, I replied, keeping my voice even though my fingers tightened around the phone.
Kane didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.
“Great. Don’t wait up. I’ll be home late.”
A hollow pause followed his words, a silence thick with a hundred unanswered questions.
“Wait. Late? What about dinner?”
My voice cracked despite my best efforts to sound unfazed. I wasn’t supposed to care this much anymore.
“Something came up. Veronica needs me.”
Veronica needs me. That name slithered through my ears like a curse, the syllables dripping venom into the pit of my stomach.
“Kane, today’s my”
The line clicked dead before I could finish. My birthday. The words hung in the air, unspoken, unheard.
I stared at the phone screen, his name still glowing as if mocking me.
“Happy birthday to me, I whispered to no one.”
Seven years. Seven birthdays. Seven variations of this exact moment. I was a broken record, stuck on repeat in a song no one wanted to hear.
The memory hit me before I could stop it.
Kane, six years ago, sitting on our lumpy couch in a crammed studio apartment, holding my hands with a kind of urgency I thought could move mountains.
“We’ll build something incredible, Camila. But I need you to trust me. Quit your job. Let me focus on us. You won’t regret it.”
I had believed him. God, I had believed him.
I left my steady job, shelved my dreams, and poured every ounce of myself into helping Kane achieve his. His first big promotion? My extra hours freelancing funded the tailored suits he needed. His business trips? My spreadsheets helped him close deals.
And then came Veronica. The assistant. The muse. The reason my world had started cracking like old plaster on a crumbling wall.
I was still lost in that cruel timeline when my phone buzzed again, dragging me back to the present.
“You look lonely tonight, Camila.”
Attached was a photo—a candid shot of Kane and Veronica, laughing over glasses of champagne. Her fingers were looped around his tie, pulling him closer.
My vision blurred. My stomach clenched so tightly I thought I’d be sick.
“Have a great evening. He’s happier now.”
I didn’t respond. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. But the sound of glass shattering startled me before I realized it was my own hand sweeping the wine glasses off the table.
“You’re overreacting, Camila.”
Kane’s tone was bored, like we were discussing a minor inconvenience rather than the decimated remains of our relationship.
He’d come home eventually, bearing his latest olive branch—a diamond ring, smaller than the last, but still glittering enough to scream “compensation.”
“You can’t buy me off, Kane.”
“It’s not buying you off. It’s fixing things.”
“Fixing things. Like I was a vase he kept knocking over but never cared to display.”
“Do you even love me anymore?”
The question fell from my lips before I could stop it, raw and jagged. Kane blinked, as if startled by the absurdity of the question.
“Camila, don’t be dramatic.”
My laugh was brittle, breaking into pieces around us.
“Dramatic? You’ve built a life with her, Kane. You’ve built lies with me.”
He reached for me, but his touch felt alien now, more invasion than comfort.
“You’re still my wife. That means something.”
“No, Kane. It doesn’t.”
The strength in my voice surprised me.
Hours later, I sat on the couch, the new ring cold and heavy in my palm. Outside, the streetlights cast long, wavering shadows on the walls, ghostly witnesses to my quiet unraveling.
Another buzz. Another message.
[Did Kane tell you about Paris?]
This time, I laughed. A wild, unhinged sound that scared even me.
The ring flew from my hand, shattering against the windowpane, leaving a crack spidering out like the fractures in my soul.
I stood, the chill from the broken glass licking at my skin. This wasn’t going to be my life anymore.
“You’re right, Kane.”
My whisper carried through the empty room.
“It does mean something.”
“It meant I had the power to end this. To finally walk away.”
The decision felt like air rushing into lungs that had been starving for it. This was the beginning of my end with Kane—and the start of something I could finally call mine.
I grabbed my keys, the sound of Kane’s car pulling into the driveway stopped me. Something was different this time.
And I was ready for it.
