Today marks the sixth anniversary of my long, twisted entanglement with Rory. As I’ve done for the past five years, I’ve meticulously planned a lavish celebration. But for the first time, Rory showed up alone. No entourage, no distractions. He walked toward me, wearing that familiar, suffocating cloak of arrogance. "Callie, give it a rest," he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, condescending baritone. "I’m done playing games. Let’s make this official." "This is the hundredth time I’m asking," he continued, shoving one hand into his pocket while extending the other. Between his fingers sat a diamond ring. "Marry me." I barely glanced at the rock. I didn't feel the rush of blood to my face or the frantic heartbeat I’d lived with for years. I just felt... tired. "I’m sorry, Mr. Steward," I said, my voice as flat as the champagne in my glass. "But this venue is already booked for my engagement party." He winced at the name—the formality of it. I remembered the first time I confessed to him. He’d looked at me with bored eyes and said, “Callie, you’re trying too hard. This kind of desperation? It’s cheap.” The second time, he didn't even hide his irritation: “I have a low tolerance for women who don’t know when to quit.” By the ninety-ninth time, after a night that meant everything to me and nothing to him, he’d leaned against the headboard, lighting a cigarette. “A relationship like this... don’t bother looking for a future. When it stops working, we just walk away.” That night, for the first time in six years, I finally listened. 1 "Security," I called out, my voice cutting through the ambient jazz. "Please escort this uninvited guest out. I don’t want him ruining the atmosphere." Two suited guards immediately stepped forward, their shadows falling over Rory. Rory let out a sharp, cynical laugh. "Alright, Callie. Enough with the theatrics. You’re just pissed because I made you wait too long, right? I get it. Six years is a long time to be the girl in the background. You’re allowed to be moody." He took a step closer, reaching out as if to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I jerked my head back, a wave of genuine nausea rolling through my stomach. He didn't look angry—he looked amused. "If you’re going to put on a show, at least be original. Look at this place. The decor, the flowers, even the damn tablecloths are identical to the last five anniversaries you threw for me. You think I don’t see that? You’re obsessed with me, Callie. Don't pretend you've moved on in a month." I stared at him, disgusted by the sheer weight of his entitlement. A few years ago, his coldness used to drive me to the brink of a breakdown. I’d screamed at him once, eyes red and voice breaking: “Rory, if you keep treating me like this, I swear I’ll marry someone else!” Back then, I was desperate for a reaction. I wanted him to tell me to stay. I wanted him to fight for me. But he’d always just smirk, turn his back, and climb into a car with some girl he’d met five minutes prior. Once, he even waved over his shoulder and called out, “Go ahead then. I’d love to see who would actually take a woman as pathetic as you.” He’d said it so many times that he’d become immune to the threat. He truly believed my world began and ended with him. "My fiancé likes this aesthetic," I said, tilting my head. "Oh, and by the way, the ring he gave me? It’s significantly larger than that—and much more expensive." I held up my left hand. A massive, flawless pear-cut diamond caught the light, blindingly bright. Rory’s brow furrowed. Without a word, he pulled out his phone and made a quick call. A few seconds later, his smug expression returned, even more condescending than before. "Nice try, Callie. Using my name to pull a piece from the Steward family’s private boutique just to stage this little drama? You’re more calculating than I thought." I clenched my fist, my nails digging into the skin of my palm. The ring did come from the Steward collection. I had gone to the boutique myself. But the black card I’d swiped belonged to my fiancé. "The play-acting is a bit lazy, though," Rory added, glancing around the room. "An engagement party where the groom doesn't even show up? You’re losing your touch." Just then, the heavy doors swung open. Tiffany sauntered in on four-inch stilettos, her hips swaying with practiced ease. "Rory, I told you she was faking. You actually believed that 'we're over' nonsense?" Rory sat down in the center chair at the head table, spreading his arms wide. Tiffany hopped onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and planting a loud, wet kiss on his cheek. "Ugh, you made me wait forever in the car..." She turned her gaze toward me, her eyes sharpening like glass shards. "Callie, honey. How much did this little 'marry me' stunt cost you this time? If you have this much cash to burn, you should spend it on a face-lift. You're starting to look a little... desperate." She reached for a bottle on the table. "Ooh, Macallan 25? You really went all out. Did you think buying his favorite scotch would make him forgive you? God, you’re naive." As she started to twist the cap, I reached out and snatched it from her hand. "This is the vintage for my wedding toast," I said, my voice ice-cold. "A woman who makes her living sitting on other people's laps isn't worthy of touching it." Rory’s face darkened, his patience finally snapping. "That’s enough, Callie. Stop being a brat. This whole scene is beneath you. It’s getting pathetic." He stood up, hoisting Tiffany into his arms in a bridal carry. He looked down at me with a mixture of pity and annoyance. "I gave you a chance tonight. I offered you the ring. You chose to play games instead. Don't come crawling back when you realize nobody's coming to save you." 2 "Where to tonight?" Tiffany purred as Rory carried her toward the exit. "The penthouse at the Pierre? Or back to your place?" "You've been to my place a thousand times," Rory replied, his voice drifting back to me, thick with flirtation. "Let's go to the Pierre. I want a view." I stood alone in the center of the ballroom, a bitter, jagged smile pulling at my lips. Six years. We were together for six years, and I didn't even know what his bedroom looked like. I’d asked him once, years ago, my voice small and hopeful: “Rory, can I come over? Just for coffee? I’d love to see where you live.” He’d shut me down instantly. “My home isn't for people like you. I don't need strays bringing their messy energy into my space. It's bad luck.” The few guests who had lingered—mostly Rory's hangers-on—started whispering, their laughter like the buzzing of flies. "Look at her. The great Callie, abandoned again." "Did she really think a fake ring would work? Rory’s seen every trick in the book." "An engagement with no groom. It’s literally a one-woman show. How embarrassing." "Give it up, Callie! Run home before the bill comes due!" For six years, I had traded my dignity for his attention. Whenever a woman like Tiffany appeared, I’d turn into a screaming, hysterical version of myself, doing anything to claw them away from him. I was a clown in a high-society circus, believing that if I just held on long enough, he would finally see me. But the circus was over. "Server," I called out, gesturing to the waitstaff. "Replace these chair covers. Every plate, every glass he touched—throw them out. I want this room scrubbed." I turned my gaze to the remaining crowd. "Anyone else who wants to gossip can do it on the sidewalk. This is my private event, and I’m done being the entertainment." My phone buzzed in my clutch. Sorry, Callie. I won't make it back in time tonight. I stared at the text. No heartbreak. No tears. Just a hollow sense of "of course." It’s fine, I replied. Just like every anniversary for the last half-decade, I walked out of the hotel alone. The autumn wind bit through my thin silk dress, making me shiver. Usually, this was the part where I’d collapse onto the sidewalk and sob, mourning my own pathetic persistence. But tonight, I just pulled my coat tighter and kept walking. As I reached the bottom of the hotel steps, something wet and heavy slammed into my chest. A bucket of thick, crimson paint splashed across my face and white dress. "Six years of stalking him! Have you no shame?!" "Leave Rory alone, you psycho!" "Women like you deserve to be marked!" Suddenly, a swarm of paparazzi appeared from the shadows, their flashes strobing like lightning. "Callie! Is this your sixth failed proposal? How does it feel to be rejected annually?" "We heard Rory finally told you to get lost. Did he commission the paint job?" "Is there even a fiancé, or are you just trying to trend?" "Who would ever actually marry you?" In the chaos, a familiar figure shoved through the crowd, his shoulders broad and his face contorted with rage. Rory. 3 He saw me dripping in red, and for a second, he looked genuinely shaken. "Who the hell did this?!" he roared at the photographers. "Who touched her?" He didn't wait for an answer. He scooped me up, his expensive suit instantly ruined by the wet paint. I turned my head away as the flashes continued to explode behind us. "I thought you were spending the night with Tiffany," I muttered. He looked down at me, the fire in his eyes softening into that arrogant "I-know-best" look. "So that's what this is. You're still jealous. See? You're not hurt, you're just pouting because of her." "I told you, she’s just a distraction. I’m done with the games." "Callie, I’m going to marry you." He said it with such conviction, the same way I used to say it to him in my dreams. "I’m already spoken for, Rory." "Stop," he sighed, carrying me into the hotel's first-aid station. "You’ve never been a good liar. I know you better than anyone." "You couldn't even find an actor to play the groom tonight because you were waiting for me to come around, weren't you? You wanted me to blink. You wanted me to give in." "Well, I’m giving in. I’ll marry you. Happy?" He set me down on an exam table. "Don't worry. I'll make sure whoever threw that paint pays for it." As the nurse began to wipe the stinging pigment from my skin, Rory started pacing, talking to himself as much as to me. "We can pick whatever venue you want. The Hamptons? Lake Como? I'll have my assistant clear the schedule. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the bridal boutique. I’ll call the best designer in the city—custom only. I want you to be the most beautiful bride New York has ever seen." My phone buzzed incessantly. It was him. My actual fiancé. I heard about the paint. Are you okay? Are you hurt? I’m finished here. I’m heading to you now. I won't be able to make the fitting tomorrow, but I sent my measurements to the shop. Just pick what you like. Don't settle for anything less than perfect. I looked at the measurements he’d sent. They were nearly identical to Rory’s build. "Fine," I said aloud, cutting off Rory’s monologue. "Let’s go to the fitting tomorrow." If someone else wanted to do the legwork for my wedding prep, why not? It saved me the trouble. Rory smiled, reaching out to pat my head. "I know I’ve been hard on you these last few years, Callie. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll give you everything I’ve owed you since we started." By the next morning, the city’s social media feeds were on fire. First, the hit pieces: “The 6-Year Stalker Finally Reaches Her Breaking Point.” “Callie Marked in Red After Desperate Anniversary Stunt.” Then, the pivot: “Steward Heir Confirms Engagement to Long-Time Flame.” My phone was a graveyard of missed calls. I didn't care. As long as this marriage happened, my grandmother’s life would be saved. I arrived at the city’s most exclusive bridal salon at 10:00 AM. Tiffany was already there, leaning against the glass storefront with a smirk that could cut stone. "Well, if it isn't the Lady in Red. What are you doing here, Callie?" "I heard Rory was meeting someone here for a fitting. Did you really think you could just slide back in? You're not the bride, honey. You're just the help." "How was the paint last night? Did it wash off, or is your soul still stained?" 4 I didn't even look at her. I just walked toward the door. She grabbed my wrist, her nails digging in. "Don't you dare ignore me, you bitch!" She swung her hand back, aiming a slap right for my face. Suddenly, Rory’s hand shot out, catching her wrist mid-air. "You touch her again, and you’re finished in this town." Tiffany gasped, stumbling back as he released her. "Rory? What... what is this? You hate her! You told me she was a pathetic loser who wouldn't take a hint! Why are you protecting her?" Rory’s voice was like dry ice. "I might have been annoyed by her, but do you honestly think I’d choose you?" Tiffany looked like she’d been slapped. "But... last night? The Pierre? You told me to come here for a fitting!" Rory laughed, a cold, cruel sound. "You're a party girl, Tiffany. You really thought I was marrying a girl I met at a club? Wake up." He shoved her aside. "Apologize to my fiancée. Now." Tiffany turned pale. The news hadn't reached her yet. She thought she was still the lead actress in this drama, but the script had been rewritten overnight. "I... I'm sorry," she whispered, her eyes darting to the floor. She turned to flee, but I caught her arm. "A bucket of paint, a night of harassment, and a dozen leaked photos," I said quietly. "You think a 'sorry' covers that?" I picked up a gallon of red industrial primer I’d brought with me from the car—I’d anticipated she might show up. I dumped the entire thing over her head. Tiffany had been a thorn in my side for a year. Last winter, when my Nana had a medical crisis, I’d called Rory, begging for his driver to take us to the specialist hospital. Tiffany had answered his phone, laughed, and hung up. We’d missed the critical window for surgery by twenty minutes. My Nana almost died because of her. "Next time you play with fire," I whispered as she shrieked, "don't be surprised when you get burned." Rory’s security dragged the screaming, red-stained woman out of the shop. Rory looked at me with a newfound spark of interest. "I never knew you had that much fire in you, Callie." I didn't answer. It's because I don't love you anymore, Rory. I have nothing left to lose. The shop owner brought out several gowns, but I barely looked at them. Marrying a man I’d only spoken to through intermediaries felt like a business transaction. The lace and tulle didn't matter. Only the result did. When I stepped out in a stunning Vera Wang, Rory was already waiting in a custom tux. He stopped breathing for a second when he saw me. Then he cleared his throat. "Let's take a photo. For the announcement." In six years, I’d begged for a single photo together. Just one selfie. He’d always refused. “Taking a photo with you is bad for my brand.” Once, I’d tried to sneak a picture of his silhouette. He’d snatched my phone, smashed it on the pavement, and told me to get some self-respect. Fine, I thought. Six years without a single memory. Let’s have one photo to end it all. Over the next week, Rory was a ghost of his former self. He was everywhere. He picked the flowers, the menu, the lighting. He held doors for me. He talked about our "future" as if it were a real thing. 5 This version of Rory was someone I didn't recognize. He was attentive, kind, and focused. It was as if he were actually trying to build a life with me. But watching him only made me feel a profound sense of irony. If he had been this man six years ago—or even two—we wouldn't be here. But his tenderness was a day late and a dollar short. The night before the wedding, I went to the hospital to see Nana. I left Rory at the venue to handle the final touches. When I returned to the ballroom to check the progress, I saw a famous actress—someone Rory had been "linked" to recently—pleading with him. I stayed in the shadows, waiting. Rory didn't hesitate. He took her hand, led her to the door, and said, "This is my wife-to-be, Callie. From this moment on, there is no one else. Don't come back." The actress left in tears. I felt nothing. No triumph, no satisfaction. I just saw it as a messy loose end being tied up. That night, Rory cooked dinner. He talked about kids, about a house in the Berkshires... But in my mind, I was seeing a different, blurred silhouette. The wedding was set for 6:00 PM the next day. At 5:30, Rory was in his tuxedo, buzzing with a strange, nervous energy. He arrived at the venue, but the doors were locked. There were no guests. No minister. No music. The place was empty. "What is this?!" Rory screamed, slamming his fist against the glass. "Where is everyone? Why is the decor different? Did they double-book the room?!" A server walked up, looking confused. "I'm sorry, Mr. Steward. Are you in the wrong place? There’s no Steward wedding here today. This is Callie’s wedding." "That's what I said! Where is she?!"
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