I found myself staring at my phone screen, thumb hovering over Sloane's Instagram profile. Again.
It had started as a casual check—just a glance to see what Warren's assistant was up to. But now, three hours later, I was deep in her digital footprint, scrolling through carefully curated photos that told a story I wasn't sure I wanted to read.
"Another late night at the best coffee shop in town," read the caption under a photo of Sloane and Warren closing up the shop. His arm was draped casually around her shoulders, her head tilted toward him in comfortable intimacy. The timestamp showed 11:42 PM. Last Tuesday. When Warren had texted me he was "working late" but would "make it up to me this weekend."
I scrolled further, my stomach knotting tighter with each image.
"Only the best teacher would stay this late to show me the ropes," Sloane had written under a photo of them sharing a pastry at the counter. Warren's laugh lines were visible, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way they used to when he looked at me.
Then I found it—the post that made my breath catch. Sloane wearing Warren's jacket, the one I'd given him for his birthday last year. It hung loosely on her frame, sleeves rolled up to reveal delicate wrists adorned with silver bracelets.
"Some people just know how to take care of you," the caption read. "Grateful for my coffee shop guardian angel."
The comments below were filled with heart emojis from mutual friends. Warren had liked the post.
"Warren," I said that evening, turning my phone toward him as we sat on his couch. "Can you explain these?"
He barely glanced at the screen before his expression hardened. "You're stalking my employee now?"
"I'm not stalking anyone. I'm trying to understand why your assistant is posting pictures of you two looking like—"
"Like what?" he cut in sharply. "Like coworkers who get along? Jesus, Elisa. These are just social media posts. People exaggerate everything online for likes."
"But she's wearing your jacket," I pressed, my voice smaller than I intended.
"And? I left it at the shop. She was cold. It's not a big deal." Warren ran his hands through his hair, exasperation radiating from every movement. "This is exactly what I mean about you creating drama where none exists."
---
The envelope sat on my desk for three days before I finally opened it.
The London School of Economics letterhead gleamed under my desk lamp as I read the words twice, three times, making sure they were real.
"Congratulations, Ms. Marshall. We are pleased to offer you admission to our International Business Program beginning this fall..."
I had applied on a whim months ago, back when Warren and I were still Warren and I—before Sloane, before the coffee shop named after me became a place where I felt like an outsider.
When I finally told Warren over dinner, I expected excitement. Maybe even pride.
Instead, his first response was: "How will the shop manage without your bookkeeping skills?"
I set down my fork, the metal clinking against the plate. "I think Macy might be able to help with that."
"Right, but Sloane's still learning the system," he continued, oblivious to my deflating spirits. "This is going to complicate things for her. She's already juggling so much."
Not once did he ask about my dreams. Not once did he say congratulations.
That night, lying awake beside him, I realized with startling clarity that Warren saw me as staff—valuable, perhaps even essential, but ultimately replaceable. Not as the love of his life.
---
"I'm taking the London offer," I announced the following morning, watching Warren's coffee mug freeze halfway to his lips.
"What? But we haven't even discussed this properly," he said, setting the mug down with unnecessary force.
"There's nothing to discuss. It's an incredible opportunity."
Warren's expression shifted from surprise to panic. He reached across the table for my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine in a gesture that once made my heart race.
"Elisa, I know things have been... tense lately," he began, his voice softening to the tone he used when trying to placate me. "But we can work through this. I'll set clearer boundaries with Sloane. We can start couples therapy. Maybe even plan that trip to Italy you've always wanted before you leave."
His promises tumbled out like stones rolling downhill, gathering momentum and desperation.
"I mean it," he insisted when I remained silent. "You're my number one. You've always been my number one."
For a moment—just a moment—I allowed myself to believe him. To imagine that things could return to how they were before. That the Warren who built a coffee shop in my name still existed somewhere beneath the surface of this man who couldn't see what was happening right in front of him.
"Okay," I whispered, not quite a promise but not a rejection either.
Warren's relief was palpable as he squeezed my hand. But as I looked into his eyes, searching for the certainty I once found there, all I saw was the reflection of my own doubt.
