On the day I organized our graduation road trip to the lake, I saw the one girl my boyfriend supposedly despised sitting in our rental van. "Despised" wasn't even a strong enough word. Weston had warned me to stay away from Chelsea more times than I could count. "She's trouble, Lauren," he’d told me, his eyes icy and resolute whenever her name came up. "Being around girls like her will only rub off on you in the worst way." Yet there she was, wearing a denim micro-skirt and four-inch heels, sitting right next to Weston. In the passenger seat. My seat. Weston didn't even look up. I assumed he was just too polite to ask her to move. But as I walked over, preparing to speak up, Weston suddenly said, "It's hard for her to stand in those shoes. Go sit in the back, okay?" I froze. Before I could process it, one of our friends gently took my arm and pulled me toward the back of the shuttle. As I moved down the aisle, I saw Weston take off our matching couple's jacket and drape it over Chelsea's bare legs. "Keep it on," he murmured, his voice a mix of exasperation and tenderness. "The AC is blasting. Don't come crying to me when your legs are aching later." My chest tightened. Suddenly, the entire trip felt hollow. … I turned to Phoebe, who was sitting next to me. "Phoebe, I thought this was just our inner circle. Why is Chelsea here?" Phoebe hesitated, looking at me with a flash of pity. "Weston invited her." A dull ache settled behind my ribs. Looking forward, I saw Chelsea resting her head on Weston's shoulder. Her bright red lipstick was smudged right onto his collar. My boyfriend—the boy who couldn't stand a speck of dust, who washed his hands five times if he touched a public railing—didn't flinch. He only reached up, gently adjusting the jacket so it wouldn't slip off her shoulders. He looked just like Chelsea’s ex-boyfriend used to. Back then, Weston had watched them with nothing but pure disdain. "I don’t get girls like her," he’d sneered. "Dressing like that... she’s obviously looking for attention." He’d spoken with such disgust, yet his eyes had been glued to her. He’d gripped my hand so tightly it bruised, and when I cried out in pain, he’d blinked, looking like he’d just woken from a trance. I had been so naive. I thought he genuinely disliked her. Now I understood. That wasn't disgust. It was jealousy. When the shuttle pulled into a rest stop, I got off. I’d only taken a few steps across the asphalt when a voice called out behind me. "Lauren." I paused, a foolish spark of hope rising in my chest. I thought he’d noticed I was leaving. "Give me your motion sickness pills." "What?" The small smile on my lips froze. "Chelsea is feeling sick. Give me your pills." His voice was sharp, laced with an underlying impatience. He didn't notice the heavy backpack on my shoulders. He didn't ask how I was doing. He had only stopped me for another girl. My throat felt dry, like ashes. "I only brought one dose." "Well, you look fine right now, don't you?" I wasn't fine. When my motion sickness hit, it was brutal—blinding headaches, nausea, sometimes even blacking out. The only reason I felt okay now was because I’d taken the first half of my medication before we left. I needed the rest for the long drive ahead. But before I could even explain, Weston reached into the outer pocket of my backpack and pulled the blister pack out himself. He let out a sigh of relief. Without another word to me, he turned around, tossed his ruined, vomit-stained couple's jacket into a nearby trash can, and headed back to the bus. I walked slowly over to the trash can. There it lay, crumpled among the garbage. I stared at it for a long time, and then, slowly, a quiet laugh escaped my throat. When I turned away this time, the weight in my chest was gone. It felt incredibly light. On the train ride back to Chicago, I called my academic advisor. "Dr. Adler, I made a mistake rejecting the graduate fellowship at Columbia. Is it too late to get my spot back?" Dr. Adler sounded deeply relieved. "It's not too late, Lauren. The final paperwork isn't due for another two days. I'm so glad you changed your mind. One day you'll realize that nothing is more important than your own future." His words echoed in my ears long after we hung up. Three hours later, I was back in my apartment. I opened Instagram. Weston, who hadn't posted a photo in years, had just uploaded a picture. It was a shot of him gently holding Chelsea’s hand, his expression a mix of helplessness and adoration. The caption read: "Who managed to get carsick, lose her wallet, and get stung by a bee all in one afternoon? This idiot." Below it, one of his close friends had commented: "Look at you, sweating over her. She doesn't even care, and you're checking her hand every three minutes like she's been bit by a cobra." I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then calmly double-tapped to like the post. At that moment, I knew Dr. Adler was right. I packed my bags, took a hot shower, and made myself a quiet dinner. As I sat down to eat, my phone rang. It was Weston. His voice was filled with disbelief. "Lauren, you left?" I looked at the clock on the wall. It had been eight hours since I got off the bus. He was only just realizing I was gone. "Yeah." "What happened? Are you sick?" He seemed to suddenly remember taking my medicine, his tone shifting into a hurried anxiety. A bitter ache swelled in my throat, but my voice remained steady. "Weston." "Yeah?" "I thought you hated Chelsea." The line went dead silent. After a long pause, he let out a heavy sigh. "People change, Lauren." He hesitated, his voice softening into something resembling tenderness. "And honestly... I realized she's actually really sweet. She's lively, fun, spontaneous. You guys just don't really know her." He rambled on, lost in his own thoughts, before catching himself with a nervous cough. "Anyway, you guys should really get to know each other. I think you'd be great friends." I didn't say anything. Assuming I was just tired, he murmured a few empty reassurances and hung up. The harsh glare of the kitchen light made my head throb. I scraped my untouched dinner into the trash, went into my bedroom, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night, a FaceTime call woke me. It was Phoebe. She held a finger to her lips, whispering, "Quiet," before flipping the camera. She was standing at the end of a hallway. The camera zoomed in on two figures near the exit: Weston and our mutual friend, Jared. "Weston, what the hell is wrong with you?" Jared was saying, his voice low but furious. "What's going on with you and Chelsea? Didn't you see Lauren leave?" Weston was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice sounded heavy. "Jared, I regret it." "Regret what?" "I always thought I wanted a good, stable girl like Lauren. But being with Chelsea... it made me realize what real passion feels like." "Lauren is an incredible girl," Jared snapped. "You're treating her like garbage." "I know she's great," Weston said, his voice dropping into a flat, exhausted tone. "But she’s like tap water, Jared. Bland. Safe. I know she’d make a perfect wife, a perfect mother. But she’s not a lover. I want to live a little before I settle down. Just for a few days, even if it ruins me." "And what if Lauren finds out? She'll leave you." Weston let out a soft, confident chuckle. "She won't. We've been together six years. I know her." The video cut off. That night, I came down with a raging fever. In my delirium, my mind drifted back to the past. I remembered the dark days after my mother died, when my father remarried. After I graduated high school, my father tried to stop me from going to college, trying to arrange marriages for me with older men for a quick payout. It was Weston who had climbed through my window in the dead of night, taking my hand and running away with me to a city where we had nothing. We worked shifts, split cheap meals, and put ourselves through school. I remembered a night at my part-time job when a customer had groped me. Weston hadn't hesitated—he’d beaten the man half to death. The manager, furious, had threatened to withhold our pay. Weston had grabbed the manager by his collar, his voice shaking with rage. "I don't care if you offered me a million dollars. I’d do it again." When I woke up, my pillow was soaked with tears. The fever didn't break, even after taking medicine, so I dragged myself to the clinic for an IV drip. I spent three days getting fluids. By the time I came home, Weston was back. The moment I unlocked the front door, a wall of thumping bass and laughter hit me. Standing in the center of our living room was Chelsea. She was wearing a tiny camisole and denim shorts, her wild, curly hair tumbling over her shoulders like dark seaweed. She looked vibrant, radiant, and entirely alive. I, on the other hand, hadn't washed my hair in three days. My face was pale and hollow from the fever, and my clothes hung loosely over my frame to accommodate the IV tape on my arm. The contrast was humiliating. Chelsea let out a soft chuckle. She didn't say anything, but the mocking amusement in her eyes was unmistakable. I stared at the crowd of people packed into our small apartment. My head felt like it was splitting in two. "Lauren, Chelsea and her friends stopped by," Weston said, stepping forward to explain as he handed out drinks. I looked at the crowd. Most of them were wearing heavy eyeliner, piercings, and clothes that smelled faintly of weed and cheap liquor. Someone was even dancing on our fabric sofa with their shoes on. The quiet, peaceful home I had spent years decorating was being torn apart piece by piece. "Are you okay? You look pale," Weston murmured, noticing my silence. I stared at him, my mouth dry. I wanted to tell him we were over. I wanted to tell him I knew everything. I wanted to ask him if any of our history had ever been real. But with a dozen eyes watching us, I kept my mouth shut. "Oh, by the way, I got you something," Weston said, handing me a small, velvet box. It was small enough to fit in my palm, but my heart stopped. In the quiet hours of the night, Weston used to whisper to me, "Lauren, the second we graduate, I'm proposing. I want to marry you and keep you safe from the world." My fingers trembled as I clicked the latch open. Inside was a cheap silver brooch. A sudden burst of laughter erupted from the living room, hitting me like a physical slap across the face. "Do you like it?" Chelsea had slipped over to my side, a sweet, feline smile on her face. "I helped him pick it out. As a thank-you, he got me this." She raised her left hand, letting the light catch a brilliant, flawless diamond ring. It was easily worth five thousand dollars. And I knew exactly where that money came from. Our joint savings account. From the age of eighteen to twenty-three, we had saved every penny together. I had worked through fevers, skipped meals, and taken the bus to save a few dollars. And all of it had been traded for a cheap silver brooch and a diamond ring for another woman. It was almost comical. "Weston," I said, my voice cutting through the noise, cold as ice. "Did you ask me before you spent our money on another woman?" The living room fell dead silent. Weston’s face flushed. He grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight it bruised, and dragged me into the bedroom, slamming the door behind us. "When did you get so materialistic?" he hissed. "It's just a ring!" A tear slipped down my cheek, but not because of his words. It was because of the sheer panic in his eyes. He wasn't angry at me; he was terrified of Chelsea being embarrassed. "What kind of man buys a diamond ring for another woman?" Weston looked away, his jaw tight. "It was a thank-you gift. How many times do I have to tell you?" "Is that all it is, Weston? What about everything you said before? You told me to stay away from her. You said she was cheap, loose, shameless—" "Shut up!" he barked, his eyes flashing with disgust. "Don't talk about her like that. She’s a good girl, Lauren. When did you get so bitter?" She’s a good girl. Even though she has a reputation, she’s a good girl. Even though she drops out of classes and insults people, she’s a good girl. Even though she bounces from guy to guy, she’s a good girl. The bedroom door creaked open, and Chelsea stepped in, looking fragile. "What's going on? Are you guys fighting because of me?" "It's not your fault," Weston said quickly, his voice softening instantly as he tried to usher her back out. But Chelsea looked at me, her eyes welling with tears. "Lauren, Weston and I are just friends. You shouldn't attack my character just because of how I dress." Slowly, dramatically, she slid the ring off her finger, set it on the nightstand, and ran out of the apartment crying. Outside, a chorus of voices gasped, asking her what was wrong. Weston grabbed the ring and slammed it onto the dresser. "Are you happy now?" He threw open the door and ran out after her, leaving the front door wide open. The apartment was dead quiet, filled only with the lingering smell of stale beer and cheap perfume. I didn't clean up. I didn't play the dutiful, long-suffering partner. I simply walked over to the dresser, swallowed my fever medication with a sip of water, and began packing. Two hours later, Chelsea updated her Instagram. "Out with the old, in with the new." In the photo, she was wearing a brand-new, even larger diamond ring. I checked our joint account on my phone. The balance was exactly zero. He had drained every last cent. But as I looked at the screen, I didn't cry. Instead, a wave of profound relief washed over me. We were finally even. I owed him nothing. That evening, Weston didn't come home. I was still weak from the fever, so Phoebe came over with groceries to cook for me. She stood at the stove, quietly washing vegetables, before turning to me. "Weston is going to regret this, Lauren. Within three months, he’s going to be the biggest joke in Chicago." I paused, looking up from the counter. Phoebe wasn't the type to say things like that. She dried her hands on a towel, a cold, sharp smile playing on her lips. "I was getting my nails done yesterday, and guess who was sitting right next to me? I recorded this." She tapped her phone, and Chelsea’s voice filled the quiet kitchen. "Are you actually going to stay with Weston, Chelsea?" a friend asked. Chelsea let out a dry, dismissive laugh. "Of course not. It's just hilarious watching him follow me around like a lost puppy. All I had to do was wiggle my finger and he came running." She paused, chuckling. "You should have seen him. He actually screamed at his girlfriend for me. When he bought the ring, his eyes got all watery with guilt. He kept promising he'd buy me a bigger one soon because I 'deserved' it." The recording ended. Phoebe locked her phone and looked at me, her eyes fierce. "Lauren, you are the one who deserves better. Let him play his little game. It won’t be long before he ruins himself." I stared at the phone. "I know. Thank you, Phoebe." Three days later, I was fully recovered. Weston still hadn't come home. He sent occasional, curt text messages—pretending to still be angry to justify staying out with Chelsea, drowning himself in her world of high-end bars and endless parties. He thought I would do what I had always done: apologize, beg for forgiveness, and ask him to come home. But he was wrong. I packed my remaining bags, booked a one-way ticket, and boarded the train to New York. At that exact moment, Weston was being jolted awake by a frantic pounding on his door.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "530998", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel