It started with a stray cat. My boyfriend, Lester, and my best friend, Sandy, supposedly rescued it from the streets. After that day, Lester began spending more and more time at her apartment. Every time he went, he’d put on a show of utter annoyance. "If that damn cat didn't refuse to let anyone else touch him, I wouldn't even step foot in her place." Sandy would roll her eyes right back. "As if I want you here. The cat likes you, not me." They bickered constantly, always at each other's throats. But somehow, amid all the arguing, he memorized the keypad code to her front door. He learned that her stomach was sensitive. He knew she always needed a glass of warm water before bed. He even missed my birthday. "The cat has a fever," he told me over the phone, his voice tight. "She can't handle it alone." I tolerated it. I kept quiet, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth, trying to be the understanding girlfriend, the supportive friend. Until the night my parents drove all the way into the city to meet him. They waited at my apartment for three hours. Lester never showed up. I didn't call. I didn't text. I just got in my car and drove over to Sandy’s place. When the door pushed open, the apartment was pristine. There was no cat bed. No litter box. Not a single stray hair on the hardwood floors. There was only a pair of men’s slippers resting neatly in the entryway, Lester's shaving razor sitting on the edge of the bathroom sink, and a yellow sticky note clinging to the refrigerator door. It was written in his blocky, familiar handwriting: "Silly girl, wait for me. I'll cook tonight." ... I stood in front of the refrigerator, staring at that sticky note for a long time. "Silly girl." Lester used to call me that. He once told me those words were reserved exclusively for his girlfriend. The bedroom door clicked open. Sandy stepped out, wearing an oversized black designer T-shirt. I recognized it instantly. It was a limited-edition piece I had waited in line for three hours to buy for Lester’s birthday last year. He had "lost" it a few months ago. When I’d spent days searching the apartment for it, he had shrugged it off. "It's just a cheap shirt, Charlie. Let it go." Sandy froze when she saw me, her face draining of color. But she recovered quickly, walking over with a familiar, easy smile to take my hand. "Charlie! Why didn't you let me know you were coming over?" She let out a nervous laugh, adjusting the collar of the shirt. "I just stepped out of the shower. The place is an absolute wreck." I pulled my hand back. "Where’s the cat?" She hesitated, her eyelashes fluttering. "At the vet," she said, her voice softening into a defensive pitch. "I told you, he has a fever." I looked around the spotless living room. No scratching post, no toy mice, no lingering scent of pet food. Just the men's slippers, the razor, and a couple of Lester’s button-downs hanging on the balcony rack to dry. Sandy followed my gaze, her breath hitching. She scrambled for an explanation. "Lester helped me take the cat to the clinic the other night during that heavy downpour. He got completely soaked, so I washed his shirt for him. And he must have forgotten his razor." She took a step closer, her voice dropping into that sweet, pleading tone she always used when she wanted to disarm me. "Charlie, I'm your best friend. You don't actually think... you trust me, don't you?" From the hallway outside, the sound of Lester's voice cut through the quiet. "Sandy, did you seriously order boba again?" The electronic lock beeped. Even before he fully stepped inside, his voice was laced with a sharp, familiar irritation. "Is your stomach fully healed? Are you actively trying to end up in the hospital?" Sandy’s expression shifted instantly. She shot a quick, panicked glance in my direction. The next second, Lester walked through the door carrying a heavy grocery bag. Through the plastic, I could see fresh beef, squash, and a carton of organic milk. Everything Sandy loved to eat. Sandy quickly rolled her eyes, her tone snapping back into their usual hostile banter. "Who asked you to care? God, you are so annoying." Lester scoffed, setting the groceries on the counter. "If I didn't care, who would have answered the three calls you made to me last night while crying in pain?" I stood by the refrigerator, unable to find a single word to say. This was how they always were. They met, they bickered. Sandy would call him arrogant and short-tempered; Lester would complain that she was high-maintenance and exhausting. I used to play the peacemaker, laughing at their antics, glad that my boyfriend and my best friend were getting along, even if it was through constant teasing. Lester finally noticed me standing in the shadow of the kitchen. The irritation on his face faltered for a fraction of a second. He quickly walked over to me. "Charlie? Why are you dressed so lightly? It’s freezing outside." He began sliding his jacket off his shoulders to drape it over mine. But before the fabric could touch my skin, Sandy's eyes welled with tears. Lester’s hands froze in mid-air. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its warmth, turning defensive. "I told you I’d come over to your place as soon as we sorted things out with the cat," he said, frowning. "Why did you have to come all the way here?" I looked at the jacket hovering between us. I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Where is the cat, Lester?" Lester’s frown deepened. "I literally just told you—" I unlocked my phone and held it up to his face. The text message from the building's leasing office was clear and concise: "Hi Charlotte, Miss Sandy in apartment 1502 doesn't have any pets registered. In fact, she is severely allergic to dander and filed a formal complaint last month about a stray cat lingering in the stairwell." The silence in the room became deafening. I looked from Lester to Sandy. "Where is the cat, Lester? The one that supposedly only lets you hold it?" A tear spilled over Sandy's cheek. "Charlie, please... I didn't mean to lie to you. I've just been going through such a dark place lately, and I..." Lester said nothing. His silence was far more humiliating than any lie he could have spun. My phone vibrated. It was my mother. "Charlie, sweetie, did you find Lester? Your dad just reheated the soup for the third time. We're waiting." My throat closed up. My parents had driven three hours. They had sat at my dining table, checking their watches, making excuses for the man they hoped would marry their daughter. I looked Lester dead in the eye. "Mom," I whispered into the receiver. "Don't wait up. He's not coming." "And he won't be coming anymore." Lester snapped his head up, his eyes widening. "Charlotte, what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Sandy rushed forward, grabbing my arm, her face wet with tears. "Charlie, please, don't do this. Don't ruin things with him because of me. It's my fault, I—" I wrenched my arm away from her touch. As I backed up, my hand scraped hard against the sharp, metallic edge of her entryway console. A sharp pain flared, and blood immediately began to well from the cut. Lester made an instinctive move toward me, his hand reaching out. But behind him, Sandy let out a choked, breathless sob, stumbling backward. Lester's hand stopped. He turned back to look at her. In that single, split second, I had my answer. I pulled my bleeding hand close to my chest. "Let's break up, Lester." Lester's face darkened, his jaw hardening. "Charlotte, do not use our relationship to threaten me because you're having a tantrum." I didn't reply. I turned and walked out. As the elevator doors began to slide shut, I saw him take a single step forward to follow me. But behind him, Sandy whimpered, her voice small and fragile. "Lester..." His feet glued themselves to the floor. The doors closed. When I got back to my apartment, my parents were still sitting at the table. The soup had gone cold. My mother looked tired, her eyes constantly darting to my father with quiet worry. My dad had undergone heart stent surgery just a few weeks prior, and he hadn't slept at all the night before, anxious and excited to finally have a proper dinner with Lester. They stood up the moment I walked in alone. "Where's Lester?" my mother asked. I tucked my injured hand behind my back. "He had a sudden emergency at work." My mother paused, her face falling. My dad managed a fragile, understanding smile. "That's alright. Young people are busy. We can always have dinner another time." Watching them make excuses for him made a thick lump rise in my throat. I couldn't bring myself to tell them about the breakup. I was terrified the shock would put too much stress on my dad's heart. Instead, I said softly, "Dad, Mom... I think I want to pack up and go back upstate with you guys for a little while." My mother immediately reached out, taking my shoulders. "Did you two have a fight, Charlie?" "No," I lied, looking down at the untouched birthday cake on the counter. "I just... I miss home." An hour later, while I was throwing Lester's books and clothes into a cardboard box, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Sandy standing in the hallway, cradling an orange tabby cat in her arms. Her neck and jaw were covered in angry, red hives. She was wheezing, her eyes swollen and bloodshot. "Charlie, look," she sobbed, holding the struggling animal out to me. "I brought the cat. I wanted you to see him. Please don't be mad at me anymore." The cat clawed frantically, leaving long, red gashes across her wrists. Lester rushed out of the elevator behind her, his face pale with fury. He snatched the cat from her arms, tucking it under his jacket. "Sandy, are you out of your mind?" he yelled. "You know you're severely allergic! What the hell are you doing?" Sandy’s knees buckled, tears streaming down her face. "I just wanted Charlie to believe me..." Lester snapped his gaze to me, his chest heaving. "Are you happy now?" My mother gasped from behind me. "What on earth is going on?" Before I could answer, Sandy clutched her chest, her breathing turning into a ragged gasp as she began to slide down the wall. Lester caught her before she hit the ground, lifting her into his arms. "Sandy!" He looked up at me, his eyes wild and accusing. "Get the car keys, Charlie! We need to get her to the emergency room!" My parents were in a panic. I didn't want them to witness any more of this nightmare, so I grabbed my keys and followed him down to the garage. The drive to the hospital was a blur of high speeds and quiet desperation. In the backseat, Lester held Sandy against his chest. She leaned her head against his shoulder, her eyes half-closed, mumbling, "Charlie, please don't hate me..." Lester stroked her hair, his voice low and tight. "Why do you have to be so stubborn? Why do you do this to yourself?" "If anything happens to you, how am I supposed to look Charlie in the eye?" It was framed as a lecture, but every syllable dripped with a terrifying, protective tenderness. At the hospital, Sandy was wheeled into the emergency room. I stood in the sterile hallway, the cut on my hand throbbing as the blood began to seep through the makeshift bandage. Lester finally noticed. He frowned, stepping forward and taking my hand. "Why is this still bleeding?" I tried to pull away, but he held fast, gently applying pressure to the wound with a clean gauze pad from a nearby station. His voice softened, losing its sharp edge. "Charlie, stop fighting me. I'm sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have yelled." Before I could speak, he reached into his pocket and pressed a set of keys into my palm. I stared down at them, confused. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. "I've sorted everything out," he said, sounding incredibly pleased with himself. "To make sure you never have to worry about me and Sandy again, I leased the apartment directly across the hall from ours for her. She'll be moving in next week." "That way, she’s right there. You can see exactly what we’re doing." I went entirely cold. Lester smiled, clearly believing he had handed me the ultimate peace offering. "She’s in no state to live alone right now. And since you two are best friends, you can help look after her. Plus, your parents are in town anyway, and they love to cook. It won't be any extra trouble for them to make a little extra for her when her stomach acts up." I stared at him, wondering if the man standing in front of me was a stranger. Last winter, when my parents' health began to decline, I had begged him to let them move into the vacant apartment across the hall from us. I had offered to pay the rent myself. I just wanted them close enough to care for. At the time, Lester had frowned, dismissing the idea instantly. "Charlie, we just got our own space. Having your parents right across the hall will ruin our boundaries. I don't want to feel like I'm constantly being watched by your family." So, I had deleted the landlord’s number. My parents stayed upstate. And now, he had leased that very apartment for Sandy. And he expected my aging parents to cook for her. I threw the keys back at his chest. "Lester, do you honestly think my family exists just to be walked over by you?" His expression turned icy. "There you go again, throwing a tantrum." "Have you forgotten everything Sandy has done for you? Who held your hair back when you were sick at company dinners? Who drove across town to bring you medicine when I was stuck in meetings?" "She made one mistake—we told a stupid lie—and now you're trying to destroy her from some moral high ground?" I looked at him, my voice barely a whisper. "And what about you? Whose boyfriend are you supposed to be?" He flinched, the question catching him off guard. But he quickly masked it, his voice dropping into a dark, controlling register. "I'm your boyfriend, Charlotte. But the way you're treating her is cruel. She's in a hospital bed because of you. When she wakes up, you are going to walk in there and apologize to her." I let out a soft laugh. "I need to apologize?" "Yes." He stared at me, his eyes hard. "Stop making me think you're this heartless." I turned on my heel and walked toward the exit. Lester lunged forward, grabbing my wrist in a crushing grip. "Charlotte, if you walk out of this hospital today, do not expect me to come back." I didn't sleep that night. When I finally drifted off in the early hours of the morning, my mind drifted back to the small, sharp fragments of the past three years. I remembered a team dinner at a crowded Thai restaurant last spring. Sandy was sitting next to me, her chopsticks hovering over a spicy noodle dish. Lester had reached across the table, physically blocking her plate. "Don't eat the spicy stuff." Sandy had rolled her eyes. "You're not my father, Lester." He had ignored her, transferring a portion of mild chicken pad thai into her bowl. "When you're crying from stomach cramps at 3:00 AM, don't expect me to answer the phone." I had laughed then, completely oblivious. "You two always argue like siblings," I had said. And then there was the rainy evening last autumn. Neither Sandy nor I had brought an umbrella. Lester had walked out of the office building carrying a single large golf umbrella. He had shoved it into Sandy's hands, his tone harsh and annoyed. "If you catch a cold, you're going to complain for a week. Just take it." Sandy had snapped back, "Who says I want your stupid umbrella?" I had stood under the concrete awning of the building, watching them argue all the way to the parking lot. In the end, I had run through the pouring rain to hail a cab by myself. I had spent years translating his anger as irritation, his nagging as annoyance. But it wasn't irritation. It was care. When the sun finally filtered through the blinds, my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram notification. Sandy had posted a photo. It was a shot of her hand, an IV line taped to her skin. Draped over her knees was Lester’s wool coat. The caption read: "Someone lectured me all night long." In the comments, their mutual friends were teasing them. "Lecturing you, but still giving you his coat? Standard Lester behavior." "Honestly, his attitude is terrible, but he only acts like this with you." Sandy had replied with a playful, rolling-eye emoji: "He's so annoying. I told him to go home and apologize to Charlie, but he refused to leave." I stared at the screen until the light dimmed. Then, I got dressed and drove to the office. The moment I stepped into the breakroom, the chatter died down. A female colleague brushed past me to rinse her mug, whispering to another girl, "Her best friend is literally in the hospital with an allergic reaction, and she’s still making a scene. Imagine being that insecure." My fingers tightened around my coffee cup. I turned around and walked straight into the HR director's office, laying my paper on her desk. "I’d like to request a transfer back to our upstate branch." The HR manager looked at my name, her expression instantly turning awkward. "Charlotte, I’m afraid that’s not possible right now." "Why?" She closed the folder. "Lester blocked it. He noted that you’ve been 'emotionally volatile' recently and that no major structural changes should be made to your position until you've taken some personal time." I managed a small, cold smile. "Did he say anything else?" She looked away, unable to meet my eyes. "He suggested you take a few days of unpaid leave to sort out your personal matters." As I walked out of her office, the whispers from the hallway drifted back to me. "Lester is honestly so professional. He didn't even take his own girlfriend’s side." "He said Sandy is dealing with severe clinical anxiety and he didn't want the office drama pushing her over the edge." "He said Charlie is just hyper-sensitive and blew a stupid cat story out of proportion." Standing in the corridor, the pieces finally fell into place. Lester had engineered this entire narrative. He had painted me as the hysterical, jealous girlfriend to shield Sandy from any blame. I turned to head toward the elevators, but the sound of voices from the stairwell caught my attention. "Lester, why would you say those things about her?" Sandy’s voice was shaky, thick with unshed tears. "You know Charlie didn't do anything wrong." "If I didn't frame it that way, you'd be locked in your apartment crying yourself to sleep," Lester replied, his voice low and quiet. "Besides, Charlie has a soft heart. Especially when it comes to you. She'll get over it." There was a long pause. "The cat was a lie from the start," Sandy whispered. "Why did you keep going along with it?" I leaned against the concrete wall, my fingernails digging into the drywall. Lester didn't answer immediately. When he spoke, his voice was barely a murmur. "Because I wanted an excuse to see you." The air in the stairwell seemed to freeze. I could hear the rapid, uneven beat of my own heart. "And on her birthday?" Sandy’s voice trembled. "Her parents waited for you for three hours. You knew that." "I knew," Lester said. "But she always makes up excuses for me. She always has." The transfer application slipped from my fingers, fluttering silently to the linoleum floor. Inside the stairwell, the voices stopped. Through the crack in the door, I saw Sandy reach out, grabbing the lapels of Lester's jacket. She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. Lester went rigid for a single second. Then, his hand reached up, fingers tangling in the hair at the back of her neck, pulling her closer. They kissed with a desperate, heavy intensity. The constant bickering, the play-fighting, the mock annoyance—it had all been a stage. A carefully constructed facade to give themselves permission to be near each other. Lester’s eyes suddenly fluttered open. He saw me through the glass of the door. His face turned entirely white. "Charlie!" I bent down, picked up my crumpled application, and walked away. He burst through the door, grabbing my shoulder. "Charlotte, wait. Let me explain." I turned, looking at his hand on my sleeve until he slowly let go. "Explain what? How incredibly stupid I've been for three years?" Sandy stood behind him, her face completely pale. "Charlie, I am so, so sorry..." I didn't look at her. Lester lowered his voice, his eyes pleading. "It was a mistake. A moment of weakness. I swear to you, we have never been physical before today. You can't just throw everything away over this." I let out a soft laugh, turned, and walked back to my desk. An hour later, the HR manager walked over and set my transfer request back on my desk. It had a bright red stamp: "REJECTED." Taped to the corner was a small yellow sticky note in Lester’s handwriting. "When you apologize to Sandy, you can have your transfer back." I stared at his neat, blocky letters for a long time. Then, I opened a blank document on my computer. I typed out a single-line email, titled it "Resignation", and hit send. I took off my company badge and laid it on the desk. "Charlotte, are you serious?" a colleague from the next cubicle whispered, staring at me. "You're actually quitting?" I didn't answer. I didn't look back. If Lester wanted to use my career to bend me to his will, I would simply leave the field. I would build a path where he didn't exist.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "549338", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel