The moment the stage lights cut to black, the silence was shattered by a wave of jagged, mocking laughter from the audience. A cold shiver raced down the back of my neck. My fingers instinctively reached behind me, brushing against the rough, adhesive edge of a piece of paper stuck to my tuxedo jacket. “Caden’s Dedicated Lapdog.” Those four words felt like a brand seared into my skin, sending a sickening heat straight down my spine. The livestream cameras were still rolling, broadcasting to thousands. Natalie—or rather, the girl I had been for the last six years—was being dismantled in real-time. Finally, Caden pushed aside Callie’s hand, which was looped smugly through his arm, and grabbed my jacket. He threw it over my shoulders, effectively shielding the sign, and practically dragged me toward the wings. Callie’s laughter bled through the heavy backstage doors, sharp as broken glass. “Did you see his face?” she wheezed. “Like a stray dog that just realized it’s been kicked into a gutter.” I turned, my fists trembling so hard I thought my bones might snap. Tears blurred my vision, turning the backstage lights into distorted halos. “You promised,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “You said tonight was the night. The proposal... the livestream... everyone was watching.” “It’s April Fool’s, babe,” Callie said, rolling her eyes as she strolled in behind us. “God, can’t the future Mrs. Sterling take a joke?” She bumped her shoulder against Caden’s, her tone dripping with mock concern. “See? He’s already snapping at you over a little bit of pride. Is this really the kind of guy you want to spend your life with?” Caden looked down, slowly closing a velvet ring box I hadn't even realized he was holding. His voice was as light as a falling feather, devoid of any weight. “Callie’s right. About the proposal... let’s just revisit it next year.” It felt like a giant hand had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart until it bruised. All those years of devotion, of being his shadow, suddenly felt like a punchline I was too stupid to understand. I released my bitten lip and slowly shook my head. The breath I let out tasted like rust—the bitter tang of old blood. “Don’t bother with next year,” I said, the words surprisingly steady. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.” 1 The words had barely left my mouth before Caden’s brows lowered, a dismissive smirk tugging at his lips. “Over an April Fool’s joke? Really?” “Yes.” He stared at me for a long time, as if waiting for me to cave first. Finally, he sighed, the sound of a man burdened by a difficult child. He reached out, his thumb catching a tear at the corner of my eye. “Miranda, it was just a prank. Callie bet me that even if I were about to propose, you’d still find a way to throw a tantrum over a little fun.” He tilted his head toward the stage, his tone casual. “Look, I had the whole thing set up.” I followed his gaze. Through the gap in the curtains, I could see it: the champagne tower, the wall of white roses, the clusters of plush bears arranged in a massive heart. Sitting on a white Steinway was a delicate, lace veil—the exact one I had pointed out in a magazine three years ago. It was everything he had ever promised. Callie snorted. “It wasn’t just the decor. There’s a firework show scheduled, a drone display... but I guess that’s all going to waste now. Tens of thousands in deposits, down the drain.” Caden stepped into my line of sight, blocking her out. “Don’t blame Callie. If you’re mad, be mad at me.” Right. Don’t blame her. Blame me. Blame me for being humiliated during my first public performance in years. Blame me for being labeled an “obsessed social climber” on every social media feed in the country. My name was now synonymous with pathetic. The proposal was being postponed because I couldn't manage to smile and say, “It’s okay.” But why should it be? Why did he have to crush my dignity into the dirt just to see if I’d still say "I do"? I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and looked away. I pulled what was left of my pride around me like a shroud. “Caden, we’re done.” His face darkened instantly. He opened his mouth to snap back, but Callie beat him to it. “Seriously, Miranda? The 'desperate-to-marry' act is getting old.” She flicked her hair, her eyes scanning me with pure disdain. “Caden and I grew up together. I know exactly how he works. This 'playing hard to get' move to pressure him into a ring might fool him, but it doesn't work on me.” There it was again. The "joke" that served as a knife, always carving me into the villain. I remembered the first time I met his parents after we moved back to the States. Callie had been there, playing the helpful "sister" figure, before casually dropping a bomb over dinner. “Miranda’s got such a great eye, doesn't she?” she’d said with a sweet smile. “Most people wouldn't even know Caden was the heir to the Sterling fortune while he was studying abroad. It’s such a coincidence... didn’t I hear your family’s firm was struggling with debt recently?” The atmosphere had chilled instantly. Caden’s smile had vanished. He’d looked at me, his eyes searching, and asked, “Is that true?” No matter how much I explained that I’d had no idea who the Sterlings were when we met in that rainy London library, the seed was planted. Caden just nodded, but the warmth never quite returned to his gaze. The next day, Callie became a permanent fixture in our "private" world. She was there to "vet" me for her best friend. Over and over, she made a fool of me, and over and over, the wedding date was pushed back. Caden wouldn't understand. Love has an expiration date when it’s fed nothing but doubt. I was exhausted. I pulled my arm out of his grip and turned toward the exit. “Miranda!” I stopped out of habit. Caden grabbed my wrist, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his features. “Don’t…” “Let him go,” Callie interrupted. “He’s just doing this for effect. He wants you to chase him. If you keep spoiling him like this, Caden, he’ll never learn how to be a proper Sterling wife. Give him a few days to cool off. He’ll be back.” I felt the pressure on my wrist slacken. Inch by inch, his grip loosened. Caden’s expression shifted, turning cold and guarded. He let go. “Fine,” he said. “Whatever you want.” 2 The night was pitch black. I pulled my coat tight, keeping my head down as I walked toward the curb. The whispers of the departing audience felt like needles in my ears. “Look, that’s the girl from the livestream.” “Beautiful, but clearly a gold-digger. Glad he caught on before the ring.” Nobody would believe that Caden was the one who pursued me. During our grad studies in London, I was the one who preferred being alone. He was the one who seemed to be everywhere—the library, the cafe, the path to my morning lectures. The fifth time we "ran into each other," he’d held out his hand, his eyes crinkling with a charm that felt like sunshine. “I’m Caden Sterling,” he’d said. “And I think we’re destined to be more than just strangers.” From then on, the seat next to me was always reserved for him. When it rained and I forgot my umbrella, Caden would appear, thrusting his into my hands and running home in the downpour. He stayed sick with a fever for two weeks because of it. When I practiced in the music hall, he would sit in the back, listening for hours. He’d say, “Miranda, I could never get tired of your music.” On April Fool’s Day back then, he had waited outside my dorm. He stood under a streetlamp, looking at me with such intensity it made my heart skip. “I love you,” he said. I had tried to be playful, to protect myself. “Happy April Fool’s?” Caden didn't laugh. He stepped forward and tucked a stray hair behind my ear. “Miranda,” he whispered. “I would never lie to you.” When did those vows become punchlines? When we moved back, Callie invaded our world, and I wasn't allowed to complain. At a New Year’s party, she demanded I play for the guests like I was hired entertainment. When I finished, she pulled a wad of cash from her purse and tossed it at my feet. “Bravo! A tip for the talent!” The room erupted in snickering. Caden didn't flinch. He just held a tipsy Callie steady and looked at me. “She’s had too much to drink. Don't be sensitive.” Last year, for Callie’s birthday, Caden bought her a luxury SUV and paid for a 24-hour digital billboard in Times Square that read Happy Birthday, Callie. The next day was my birthday. Caden showed up hungover and handed me a used Starbucks gift card he’d found in his car. I’d cried. I’d asked him why. By the end of the argument, it turned out to be another "test." Caden wasn't even drunk; his eyes were clear and piercing as he asked, “Do you love me, or do you love the things I can buy you?” The rain began to fall harder now, mixing with the tears streaming down my face. I had never done anything to betray him. Yet I was the one constantly on trial. I flagged a taxi, my hands shaking as I checked my phone. A news notification popped up. A photo of me frantically ripping the sign off my back had been enlarged and centered. The headline was a joke about "The Lapdog Who Didn't Get the Bone." The comments were a cesspool. She deserved it. Pushing for a mansion she didn't earn. I tried to lock my phone, but my fingers wouldn't obey. Suddenly, a boom echoed through the night sky. Fireworks. They went on for ten minutes. Then, a thousand drones rose into the air, forming the shape of a massive diamond ring being slipped onto a finger. Callie, Marry Me. The taxi driver rolled down his window. “Man, look at that. Some rich kid must be proposing. That Callie girl is one lucky woman.” On Instagram, Callie had posted a picture of the sky. Some people don’t know how to appreciate what they have. Sometimes you just have to take what’s yours. My phone buzzed again. A voice note from Caden. “You seeing this?” There was a pause. “The team already had everything set up, and it seemed like a waste to cancel. I just had them change the name on the drones. Don't read too much into it.” I stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I typed back: It’s beautiful. I hope you both get exactly what you deserve. 3 I blocked his number the moment the message sent. The taxi pulled up to my apartment. I felt a strange hollowed-out sensation—part relief, part devastating loss. I went inside and started to pack. Six years is a long time. The memories were everywhere, tucked into the corners of the rooms. The coffee station where Caden would make me a latte every morning before he left. The navy-blue scarf on the hook—he’d spent two weeks learning to knit it for me, and even though the stitches were crooked, I’d loved it more than anything else I owned. The vinyl records we’d hunted for in dusty shops in Shoreditch. One of them had a lopsided heart drawn on the cover with the words Miranda’s Favorite scribbled next to it. When we moved back to the States, I’d paid hundreds in extra baggage fees just to make sure those things arrived safely. But now, as I looked around, I realized I didn't want any of it. I packed one small suitcase. As the confirmation for my flight clicked through on my laptop, a familiar, sharp cramp bloomed in my abdomen. My period was early. Stress, probably. I realized I was out of Advil. I felt faint, my body giving out from the emotional toll of the night. I ordered some delivery and sat on the floor, waiting. The doorbell rang. I dragged myself up, expecting a delivery driver. It was Caden. “How long are you going to keep up this act—” He stopped abruptly when he saw me. His annoyance vanished, replaced by an immediate, frantic concern. He stepped inside and pulled me into his arms. He smelled like Callie’s perfume—that cloying, expensive floral scent. I tried to push him away, but my limbs felt like lead. “You’re burning up. Did you walk home in the rain?” Caden stayed all night. He brought me medicine, wiped my forehead with a cool cloth, and kept me hydrated. I drifted in and out of a fever dream. I was back on that stage, but the audience had turned into monsters with Callie’s face, laughing as they tore my clothes off. I woke up with a start to find Caden watching me, his expression uncharacteristically soft. “I had the news articles scrubbed,” he said quietly. “And Callie asked me to apologize for her. It’s over now, Miranda. Let’s just move past it.” He touched my forehead and sighed with relief. I looked at him, confused. His hand felt exactly as it did years ago—warm and steady. I remembered the night in London when a group of guys had cornered me in an alley. Caden had jumped in without a second thought. He’d shielded me with his body, whispering, “Don’t look, don’t listen. I’ve got you.” He still had the scars on his back from that night. Maybe it was the fever, but a desperate, pathetic hope flared in my chest. “Caden,” I whispered. “Please. Just stop listening to her. Can we just be us again?” He looked at me for a long time. Then, the softness vanished. “Miranda, why do you have to be so stubborn? It was a joke. An April Fool’s prank. Callie apologized, and you’re still holding a grudge? Can you really not tolerate my friends?” The disappointment in his voice was like a bucket of ice water. “She’s my oldest friend. She was just worried about me being used. Is it so bad that she wanted to protect me?” “If you really loved me,” I said, my voice trembling, “why would you push the wedding back another year?” I looked at him, a hollow laugh escaping my lips. “Was last night—your 'care' for me—just another test too?” He looked stunned. “Were you testing to see if I’d still be grateful? To see if I’d forgive you because you gave me a glass of water?” I was crying now, the ugly, racking kind of sobs. “Tell me! What do I have to do to make you believe I’m human?!” He didn't answer. The silence stretched between us, sharp and agonizing. “Caden,” I choked out. “I can’t tell the difference between your love and your trials anymore.” 4 Caden practically fled the apartment. I closed my eyes, blaming myself. I should have ended it the first time he looked at me with suspicion. I should have ended it when the "tests" started. Once the fever broke and the painkillers kicked in, I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the door. Callie was leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, a jagged smile on her face. “Well, look at you. Using a little fever to win him back? I underestimated your theatrics.” I didn't have the energy for her. “Move.” She stepped in front of me, her expression shifting into something sharp and hateful. “What do you even have, Miranda? I’ve known him for twenty years. Why did everything change the moment he met you?” She grabbed my wrist, her nails digging into my skin. “I play piano too. But he never looked at me the way he looks at you when you play. I’m tired of being the 'best friend.' I want him.” I wrenched my hand away. “He’s yours. Congratulations.” Callie’s face twisted. “Don’t you dare act superior with me!” She lunged forward and shoved me. Still weak from the fever and off-balance from the suitcase, I hit the floor hard. Before I could move, I felt a sharp, blinding agony. Callie had slammed the heel of her stiletto onto the back of my right hand. “If you can’t play, let’s see how much he loves you then!” The world went white. I couldn't even scream; the pain was so intense it stole the air from my lungs. I felt the bone give way. I heard her footsteps retreating. The elevator dinned. Then, someone else appeared—a frantic, guttural shout echoing through the hall.
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