The final straw came when I excitedly showed Julian, my boyfriend of eight years, the blueprints I’d drawn for our future home. He rejected my hints about marriage—again. But the real blow came just hours later, when I saw him hand the keys to that very penthouse apartment to my best friend, Scarlett.
I rushed to his company to confront him, only to overhear him and Scarlett getting intimate in his office, mocking my designs as a pathetic attempt at “nesting.”
Back in our apartment, a blind rage consumed me, and I tore every last blueprint to shreds. Once my fury was spent, I made a phone call.
"Owen, I'll marry you."
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1
My university professor, Owen Hayes, answered on the first ring, his voice electric. The idea of marrying me thrilled him.
I once felt that same thrill for the man who was now my ex-boyfriend, Julian Vance.
After Julian and I became official and moved to New York City, I had eagerly awaited the day we would get married. I loved him so deeply, but I was also deeply insecure.
That was why I’d foolishly tried to lock him down, dropping hint after hint about marriage.
After he rejected me countless times, he turned around and gave our future home to my best friend. Her triumph made my eight years of devotion feel like a joke.
I leaned back against the sofa as silent tears streamed down my cheeks.
I sat there, numb, until Julian came home that night. He pushed the door open, saw the shredded blueprints scattered across the floor, and scowled at me. "Why is this place such a dump? What kind of man would want a slob like you?"
Slowly, I shifted my gaze to him. God, how time had changed him.
When we first moved into this apartment, he had told me I wouldn't have to lift a finger—that I just had to be his happy princess. Back then, he would even scold me if I tried to lift anything heavy.
Now, he just took it for granted that I would handle everything.
I said nothing. I stood up, walked past him into the master bedroom, and started packing my clothes.
Julian followed me in, trailing a heavy cloud of perfume—the signature scent of my supposed best friend, Scarlett Mercer.
He saw me putting clothes into a suitcase and just sneered. With his hands in his pockets, he watched me coldly.
"Another tantrum? Don't bother. You'll just come crawling back, looking pathetic. If you're not ashamed of yourself, I'm ashamed for you."
"How many times have you thrown a fit and threatened to break up? I never took it seriously."
"Chloe Collins, you love me so much you can't live without me. If you were a little more obedient, I might treat you better. But no—you just have to make things difficult!"
My hands froze. So, he had known. He'd known all along.
He knew that all my so-called surprises and hints were just desperate attempts to get a commitment from him. Yet, he’d deliberately kept me at arm's length, watching me stew in my own misery.
I turned to look at his face, which now seemed like a stranger's. I murmured, "Don't worry. I won't be difficult anymore."
All the love I once had for him was gone.
My quiet resolve must have startled him. Julian froze, then reached for me as if just realizing I was serious.
Just then, his phone rang. He answered Scarlett's call right in front of me, without a care in the world.
I couldn't hear what she said, but I heard his laugh. Then, without another word, he opened the door and left.
The door clicked shut—a sound so soft it shattered something inside me.
