I spent three years playing the role of the devoted, brainless shadow to Gavin. He hated using protection. Every time, after it was over, he would sit on the edge of the bed with his bare back to me—a canvas of red scratches I’d left behind—and light a cigarette. He’d say, with the air of a man bestowing a great mercy: "What are you worried about? If you get pregnant, we’ll just get married." A month later, I stared at the two pink lines on the plastic stick. I didn't tell him. Instead, I ghosted him—a clean, clinical, cliff-edge break. Later, he ran into me at a women’s health clinic. I was leaning against a wall, my hand resting on my baby bump, chatting with another woman in the waiting room. "Don’t let the drama fool you," I was saying. "I cried like the world was ending when we broke up, but actually having his child? I wouldn’t dare. I know the difference between crying into a pillow and crying over a crying baby. Dating is one thing, but I’ve got someone else in mind for the 'till death do us part' stuff." 1 The day I found out I was pregnant, I went to the private lounge where Gavin usually hung out. I was about to push the door open when I heard the guys inside debating which brand of condoms felt the most natural. Someone laughed. "Ask Gavin. He’s got a steady girl; he’s the expert." There was a pause, and then I heard Gavin’s voice, lazy and dismissive. "Condoms? Never use 'em." The room went quiet for a beat. "Not once? Aren't you worried about Mia getting pregnant?" Gavin flicked a lighter. I could practically hear the smoke curling around his words. "It’s fine. She’s a good girl. She always remembers to take the pill afterwards." The guys erupted. "Man, you’ve got her trained well." Gavin let out a low, amused huff. "She’s not just 'good.' I’ve had her every which way. I know every freckle on her body better than she does." "But seriously, Gav," someone pressed, "what if she actually turns up pregnant? What then?" Gavin hesitated, his voice slowing down. "If it happens, it happens. We get married. Mia’s easy to live with. We fit. If I have to settle down, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to do it with her." Someone teased him. "If I remember right, you used to swap girls like you swap watches. You’re really ready to retire for one girl?" Gavin gave a noncommittal shrug. "Well, she’s not pregnant yet, is she? I’m not losing sleep over the long term. If I get bored, I’ll just find a polite way to end it. She’ll listen. She’s got that people-pleasing streak. Every time we argue, she doesn't blame me; she immediately wonders what she did wrong and comes crawling back to apologize. Last time, I wanted to try something in the car and she said no. I just threatened to break up, and she folded instantly." A chorus of whistles followed. "Damn, she’s that easy?" Gavin’s voice softened slightly, but it wasn't out of love. It was the tone of a collector talking about a fragile antique. "She’s too naive. That’s why I can’t let anyone else have her. She’d get eaten alive out there. She’s a crier. If she were with a real prick, she’d cry herself hoarse. She’s better off with me where I can keep an eye on her." "Sounds like you’re running a charity, Gav," someone joked. "But you better watch her. With a face like Mia’s, plenty of guys are waiting for a turn. She looks like a saint but she’s built like a sin. If she were mine, I’d never leave the house." Gavin’s tone went cold. "Keep dreaming. You wouldn’t stand a chance." He seemed to drift off then, his voice turning reflective. "But she is... pure. No matter how many times we do it, she cries like it’s the first time. Honestly, the thought of leaving her... I’m not sure I’m ready for that." The guys started ribbing him about becoming a romantic, but then someone dropped the heavy question. "Seriously though, Gav. If she’s pregnant, do you really settle down? I thought you only started seeing her to spite Sloane. And I heard Sloane just broke up with her guy. She’s working at your firm now, isn't she? Isn't this your chance?" This time, Gavin didn't answer. He just stared at the floor, the cherry of his cigarette glowing bright and then fading in the dark. 2 I looked at the two lines on the test. I hadn't actually gone to the club to tell him I was pregnant. A friend had called saying he was wasted and needed a ride. But seeing Gavin lose himself in the thought of Sloane... it actually felt like a relief. The truth was, the moment I saw that positive test, I started planning our exit. Everyone knew Gavin only picked me because of Sloane. There’s a specific kind of person in this world—someone who has never known a day of hunger, never felt the sting of a real loss. Their words have this airy, "let them eat cake" quality to them. That was Sloane. She was my college roommate. Every morning, she’d look in the mirror, pump her fists, and whisper, "Good morning, Sloane! You are a ray of sunshine! Today is going to be amazing!" When Gavin chased her in college, it was a circus. Roses, designer bags, jewelry—he threw money at her like it was confetti. She’d mention she liked a certain brand of vintage gold, and the next day, a necklace worth three years of my tuition would be sitting on her desk. Gavin was the sun. When he walked into a lecture hall, phones came out. He didn't care. He’d just lean against the doorframe in his Arc'teryx jacket, looking like a model, waiting for Sloane. He was perfect, down to the last strand of his dark hair. The first time I saw him, he was confessing his love to her. He had that half-European look—sharp jawline, high bridge of the nose, a smirk that suggested he knew exactly how much he was worth. And he was worth a lot. At the homecoming gala, the Dean sat with Gavin’s father in the VIP section. His elegance wasn't something he bought; it was in his DNA. Gavin and Sloane were the protagonists of this world. Everything good was destined for them. And me? I was the girl with the dead mother, the gambling addict father, the sick grandmother, and three part-time jobs. I was the "broken beauty" of the campus, the one everyone felt sorry for but no one actually wanted to be. I was a footnote in their story. Sloane once asked me why I worked three jobs. "Because I need the money," I said, my voice flat. She rolled her eyes. "Just ask your dad. Why are you acting like the world is on your shoulders? It’s so depressing." How do you explain a life like mine to a girl like her? "My dad is the reason the world is on my shoulders," I said quietly. Because she had never suffered, she didn't want the billionaire's son. She wanted the "real" experience. She fell for a broke athlete with a massive ego who fed her sweet lies and gave her nothing but cheap sentiments. Every Valentine’s Day, he’d pick a fight and break up with her, only to crawl back two days later. She didn't see the pattern. But I knew money. I knew he was just avoiding the cost of a gift. I tried to warn her once. She looked at me with pity. "Mia, you’re so cynical. Do you think everyone is bad just because... you’ve never been truly loved? Are you just jealous?" I never spoke up again. One afternoon, I walked past Gavin’s Porsche. He was throwing a bouquet of lilies on the ground, his face twisted in a sneer. "You’re dating him and you didn't tell me? You like playing games that much?" Sloane lifted her chin. "Gavin, you only know how to throw money at things. You don't know the first thing about love." I expected him to look hurt. He didn't. He laughed—a dry, self-deprecating sound. "I don't need to know," he said, catching sight of me standing a few feet away. He crooked a finger. "Hey. You. I’ll give you whatever you want. Come love me." I froze. A long moment passed before I heard my own voice. "Okay." I thought I was helping Sloane get rid of a nuisance. But her face went pale with rage. "Mia, you’re really that pathetic? You’ll take my leftovers?" I didn't defend myself. I just knew my grandmother’s hospital bill was due, and my father’s bookie was calling. I needed money. I needed enough money to pull myself out of the mud. 3 Gavin was good to me, in his own way. My father never showed up at campus again—Gavin handled him, though I never asked how. My grandmother was moved to a private suite in the city’s best hospital. Every day, the nurses sent me photos of her smiling in the garden. He made my problems vanish with a swipe of his black card. He made me quit my jobs. He showered me with gifts—handbags, custom jewelry, and when I mentioned I wanted to learn about finance, he hired a private tutor. Because of him, I learned how to read balance sheets and manage investments. I wasn't just spending his money; I was learning how to make my own. Outside of that, we were a normal couple. We hugged, we kissed, we went to hotels. The first time we were together, I remember the cool line of his shoulder in the moonlight. When he leaned down to kiss me, the silver chain around his neck brushed against his collarbone, swaying with his rhythm. My heart hammered so hard I thought I’d faint. He chuckled against my lips. "Silly girl. Remember to breathe." Gavin’s appetite was voracious, and I learned to play the part he wanted. He hated condoms, so I took the pills. He wanted excitement, so I followed him to whatever daring location he chose. But he was still a dog. Even with me, the women never stopped. His Instagram was a revolving door of models. At parties, women clung to his arm, and he never brushed them off. Some even called my phone, their voices dripping with provocation. I cried about it once. He looked at me like I was a stranger. "I’m dating you, Mia, I’m not joining a monastery. If you can’t handle it, fine. Let’s break up. I’ll find someone who can." After that, I became "good." I stopped asking questions. But I wasn't as obedient as he thought. I was a woman with needs, and Gavin was rich and incredibly attractive. He was a great choice for a phase of my life. He had charisma. He had saved me when I was at my lowest. I was grateful, and for a while, I genuinely loved him. But that was the problem. He was born at the top of the pyramid. He didn't know how to love because he had never had to sacrifice for it. He could mimic it, though. When we were in bed and I’d whisper that he was hurting me, he’d cradle my face and kiss me over and over, telling me he loved me. He was a spoiled, beautiful beast. As long as you stroked his fur the right way, he’d stay. But I was twenty-seven now. I couldn't play forever. I was just waiting for the right moment to walk away. 4 The morning after the club, Gavin called. His voice was thick with sleep. "Mia, bring those files to the office. I need them for the board meeting." At the office, I ran into Sloane. She was wearing a cheap, faded blazer, clutching a stack of papers. Her hair was pulled back tight, but she couldn't hide the hollow look in her eyes. A friend had told me her father’s business had collapsed and her "soulmate" athlete had run off with her remaining savings. Now, she was a junior clerk at Gavin’s firm. She didn't even have the security clearance to see him. She stared at me, her mouth dropping open. "Mia? You look... so different. You used to be..." "Mia, where are my files?" Gavin’s voice cut through the air. He walked up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my head. It was a gesture of practiced intimacy. Sloane watched him—the man she had rejected, now powerful and untouchable—and her knuckles turned white as she gripped her papers. Gavin never showed affection in the office. I knew exactly why he was doing it now. He was performing for her. The second time I saw her was on our five-year anniversary. Gavin booked a corner table at the most expensive steakhouse in the city. Halfway through dinner, he said, "I asked Sloane to drop by. You don't mind, do you?" I blinked, startled. He smiled. "Don't be nervous. I just want her to take some photos of us. She’s got a good eye." When Sloane arrived, Gavin pulled me close. He took my phone and handed it to her. "Make us look good." He kept his eyes on me, tucking a stray hair behind my ear, his thumb lingering on my cheek. Sloane’s hands were shaking as she held the phone. The sight seemed to thrill him. He hooked an arm around my waist, pulling me into his chest. "Smile, baby. It’s been five years." His breath caught the shell of my ear. He looked like he was about to kiss me, but I could feel his focus shifting. He was watching her out of the corner of his eye. "Enough..." Sloane suddenly dropped the phone. Her voice broke, and tears began to stream down her face. "Gavin, I know I was stupid. I know I rejected you. But why do you have to be so cruel? You’re doing this on purpose—being this way with her just to make me watch. Do you enjoy seeing me regret it? We’ve known each other forever... why do you have to hurt me like this?" She was trembling, her eyes wide with misery. Gavin’s body went rigid. His grip on my shoulder tightened until it was painful. Sloane threw my phone onto the floor and ran out of the restaurant. Gavin swore under his breath. "Damn it." He pushed me aside, grabbed his coat, and chased after her. I knelt down and picked up my phone. The screen was shattered. On our five-year anniversary, Gavin left me standing there alone.
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