On our eighth anniversary, clutching the laboratory report that confirmed my pregnancy, I sent Marcus a text. "Can you come pick me up from the clinic? We're finally having a baby." A red exclamation mark flared on the screen. "Message failed to send. You are no longer on this user's contact list." I stared at those cold system words for a very long time. This was hardly the first time. Whenever he lost a drinking game or some juvenile dare with his younger colleagues, it was always the same drill—delete my contact, block my number, change the front door keycode. The designated target of the prank was always me. And every single time, he complied without hesitation. I stood on the sidewalk for an hour, the autumn wind biting through my coat, before I finally managed to hail a cab. As we crawled past his corporate headquarters, I saw him standing under the amber glow of the streetlamps, holding a warm takeout cup. A young girl came running up to him. He handed her the drink, reaching out naturally to ruffle her hair. "First pumpkin spice latte of the season," he said, his voice carrying through the crisp air. "Take the lid off." The girl pried the plastic cap away and let out a sharp, delighted gasp. Tucked into the rim was a delicate diamond pendant, catching the streetlights in brilliant flashes. She threw her arms around his neck, pressing her lips eagerly to his mouth. "I've had my eye on this forever! I love it!" The impact forced Marcus half a step back, but his arms wrapped securely around her waist, steady and practiced. "Happy autumn, kiddo." I looked away. The traffic light clicked green. The line of cars drifted forward into the evening, and in that quiet, shuddering second, I made up my mind. It was time to leave the future to whatever lay ahead—and give myself back to me. … I let myself into the apartment, kicked off my heels, and sank onto the living room sofa. Marcus walked through the door twenty minutes later. "You're already back?" He tossed his car keys onto the entryway console, bending over to unlace his oxfords. "Why didn't you text me for a ride? Have you eaten?" I didn't answer. He walked over, sliding his arms around me from behind and resting his chin against my shoulder. "Still sulking?" "Deleting your number was just a stupid dare. Don't take it to heart." "Kendall just graduated last year. She's young. It's awkward to make things hard on her when she loses a game." A wave of Kendall's perfume rolled off his collar—a cloying, syrupy floral scent so thick it turned my stomach. I sat rigid, fighting down the nausea. "Happy eighth anniversary," he whispered. A cold, metallic chain brushed against the bare skin of my collarbone. He stepped around to the front, fastening the clasp and tilting his head to inspect it. "Beautiful. Suits you." I lifted my hand, my thumb grazing the cheap synthetic stone. "Do you like it?" "It's fine," I said quietly. He smiled, patting the top of my head. "I'll go warm up some soup. You look terrible—I bet you skipped lunch again." I leaned back against the cushions, listening to the faucet running in the kitchen. A moment later, his phone buzzed on the coffee table. The screen lit up, notifications from Kendall cascading down one after another. I glanced over. "Marcus, did Elise put on the necklace? Is she still mad at me?" "I spent forever picking it out! It was the VIP promotional gift with purchase, but the sales rep swore the full-size version retails for five grand." I stared at the glowing glass for a long time. From the kitchen, Marcus called out, "Elise, want a poached egg in yours?" I stood up slowly, unfastened the chain from my neck, and set it down on the table. "Marcus." "Yeah?" "We need to talk." He poked his head out from the kitchen, still wearing his apron. "What's up?" Before I could speak, his phone rang. A custom ringtone—the one reserved exclusively for Kendall. He answered immediately. Kendall's voice, choked with frantic tears, spilled through the speaker: "Marcus! There's a massive water bug in my apartment! It flew right at me! I'm so scared!" Marcus's expression snapped tight. "Stay where you are. I'm on my way." He tore off the apron, grabbed his keys, and bolted toward the door. "Kendall's got an emergency. I have to run over. Whatever it is, we'll talk when I get back." He had said "wait until I get back" countless times over the past two years. But every time he turned his back to run to Kendall, those promises sank like stones into deep water, never to resurface. He was moving so fast his elbow clipped a gift box on the console table, knocking it to the floor. He didn't even glance down. "I'm pregnant," I said softly to the heavy wooden door as it slammed shut. "And I'm having it terminated." The silence in the apartment stretched on, thick and suffocating. After a long while, I walked into the kitchen and turned off the stove. Back in the entryway, the contents of the dropped box lay scattered across the hardwood. Inside was a bespoke silk tie I had spent two months tracking down for our anniversary. I knelt, gathered the tissue paper and the silk, and threw the entire box into the trash bin. Marcus had left his phone behind in his rush. The screen was still awake. The lock screen was a photo. At some point, our wedding portrait had vanished. In its place was a candid shot of Marcus looking down at Kendall, his eyes soft and amused. When Marcus and I eloped the moment we hit legal age, he had smiled in our courthouse photo with wild, reckless ambition—an unvarnished fire in his gaze. The calm, indulgent tenderness he now offered Kendall belonged to an entirely different man. The raw, desperate devotion we once shared had been real. The betrayal sitting in front of me was just as real. I undressed and stepped into the bathroom. In the vanity mirror, the skin across my lower abdomen was mapped with faint purple bruises—the aftermath of daily hormone injections. One needle every day, for two solid years. Marcus had said he wanted a family, so I subjected my body to the regimen. I choked down bitter supplements until I gagged and endured hundreds of punctures. In the beginning, he would hold the cotton swab against my skin with aching tenderness; later, he walked past without looking, and eventually, he averted his eyes entirely whenever we were intimate. I raised my hand, covering the bruised reflection in the glass. The following morning, I went to the hospital to schedule the procedure. The hallway outside the women's health wing was crowded. I sat on a vinyl bench, holding my intake forms, waiting for my number to be called. When I looked up, I saw Marcus walking down the corridor. His arm was wrapped around Kendall, who leaned against him with a delicate, suffering pout. "Doctor, is she really going to be fine?" Marcus was pressing the physician, his voice taut with anxiety. "Shouldn't we run a full panel? She said her abdomen felt tight." The doctor waved a hand dismissively. "It's mild menstrual cramping. She just needs rest." "Her immune system is fragile," Marcus insisted, blocking the doctor's path. "Please check again." Exasperated, the doctor sighed. "If it gives you peace of mind, go get a basic blood workup." Marcus finally relaxed, guiding Kendall by the elbow toward the payment kiosk. As they passed my bench, his stride hitched. He blinked, caught off guard. "What are you doing here?" His eyes scanned my face for two brief seconds. "Your stomach acting up again?" "Yes." "Take care of yourself then. Stop drinking cold brew on an empty stomach." He dropped the remark like a routine courtesy, guided Kendall along, and walked away without looking back. When I returned home that afternoon, Marcus was in the living room packing a tote bag. Spread across the coffee table were a dozen gourmet snacks—sour gummies, dried plums, ginger candies. He was organizing them neatly into compartmentalized boxes. "Kendall's moving into her new place, and her appetite's been off lately," he explained without looking up. "She's on her own. She never knows how to look after herself." He paused. "How did your checkup go?" A sudden wave of dry heaves hit me. I clamped a hand over my mouth and bolted for the powder room. The sound of retching echoed off the tile. Marcus knocked on the wood, his tone sharp with irritation: "Elise, can't you manage basic self-care? You really think you're still eighteen?" I gripped the edge of the porcelain sink, staring at my reflection. Pale as chalk. Dry, cracked lips. Years ago, during the grueling startup phase of our company, we lived in a subdivided studio. I pulled endless all-nighters polishing pitch decks, drank client after client under the table, and shredded my stomach lining in the process. When I first discovered Kendall's existence, I couldn't comprehend why his heart had strayed. In a desperate, pathetic attempt to stay relevant to him, I tried drinking what she drank and eating the greasy fast food she loved, until acute gastritis landed me in the emergency room. He had stood over my hospital bed, scowling: "Elise, do you just enjoy torturing yourself?" I had looked up at him and demanded, "What about you? You just like them younger, don't you?" That was the first time we tore down all pretense and screamed at each other. After that, we fought about Kendall dozens of times, until the screaming gave way to complete, hollow indifference. The shift had happened on an ordinary Tuesday night. He was offering yet another convoluted excuse about Kendall, and I simply reached for the remote and changed the channel. That was the moment I realized I had stopped asking questions altogether. My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from the clinic: "Ms. Antony, your appointment for tomorrow morning has been confirmed. Please arrive on time." At the same time, Marcus's phone on the vanity lit up with a photo. Kendall holding up her hand, showing off a delicate silver ring on her finger. "I put our matching band on! Showing you tonight~ Make sure you wear yours too!" I looked down at my left hand. The plain silver band on my ring finger had long since lost its luster, oxidized and dull. I had taken it to be polished multiple times, always slipping it back on. The upgraded wedding set Marcus had promised year after year had never materialized. When I walked out of the bathroom, a blister pack of antacids and a glass of warm water were sitting on the coffee table. Perhaps it was the dull ache in my abdomen, or perhaps that single glass of water caused a momentary lapse in my judgment, but a ridiculous urge surfaced—I almost told him I was pregnant. I parted my lips, but Marcus straightened up, checking his watch. "Right, Kendall's moving tomorrow morning, so I have to head out early. When your test results come in, just review them and follow the prescription. Don't drag it out like you always do." A bitter knot tightened in my throat. I lowered my eyes, swallowing the words back down. What on earth was I still hoping for? "I have a procedure scheduled for tomorrow," I said quietly. "Can you come sign the authorization form?" "I can't. Kendall's moving, and she can't handle the movers alone." He paused, adding casually, "You're a grown woman. Can't you sign your own medical forms?" I folded the intake slip carefully. "Right." "Have a smooth move tomorrow." ... The next day, I stopped by our corporate office to retrieve my remaining personal files. As I walked past Marcus's executive suite, the heavy door stood slightly ajar. Kendall's voice drifted out, dripping with honeyed sweetness: "Marcus, thank you for covering for me on that supply chain audit. If Elise ever found out she took the fall for my mistake and gave up her VP seat, she'd be heartbroken." Marcus's reply was detached, steady: "She won't find out. Besides, I told you I'd protect you." Two years ago, a critical data error had nearly derailed a massive institutional account. I had genuinely believed the oversight was mine. Terrified of jeopardizing Marcus's position and the firm's valuation, I had voluntarily stepped down from the executive board and retreated into domestic life. It had never been my mistake. It was Kendall's blunder, and Marcus had orchestrated my sacrifice to shield her. I should have seen it. Marcus was a notorious perfectionist who used to stay up until dawn over a misplaced decimal point. Yet when that catastrophic error occurred, he had closed the internal review almost immediately, offering vague reassurances to the board. Back then, I thought he was sparing my pride. In reality, he was protecting his little darling. "Alright," Marcus's voice softened. "It's your birthday. Take the rest of the afternoon off to celebrate." I didn't listen any further. I turned and pushed open the door to my former corner office. I froze. Every trace of my presence was gone. My reference files, my framed architectural licenses, my favorite ceramic mug—all replaced with pastel pink storage bins, vanity mirrors, and beauty supplies. The framed corporate achievement award on the wall had been swapped for Kendall's whimsical art prints. The brass nameplate on the walnut desk now read: "Kendall Marsh". "Oh, Elise," Kendall said, leaning against the doorframe with an airy smile. "Someone said they saw you in the lobby. Guess they were right." "Where is my monstera?" I asked. Kendall bit her lip innocently. "That plant... the leaves were turning a bit yellow. I thought it looked messy in here, so I had facilities toss it." I turned to look at her. "I propagated that cutting the year my mother died." Behind her, Marcus appeared in the hallway. He walked over, his expression entirely composed. "I let Kendall use this office temporarily. You rarely come in anyway. I'll have the administrative team set up an identical space for you later. As for the plant... I'll find a replacement." To my own surprise, I felt no surge of fury. Only an overwhelming, bone-deep exhaustion. "Do you remember what you told me the day I resigned?" I looked around the room—at the vanity mirrors, the lipsticks lined up on the marble sill. "'I'm keeping this office exactly as it is. Whenever you want to come back, it's yours.'" I looked Marcus in the eye. "Did a single word that ever came out of your mouth mean anything?" "Elise—" he called after me as I turned on my heel. I didn't answer. I walked straight down the corridor. When the elevator doors slid shut, I closed my eyes and let out a long, slow breath. When heartbreak reaches its absolute limit, there are no tears left to cry. ... Back at the apartment, I packed my final suitcase. I took the thick journal that held two years of fertility tracking, dropped it into the kitchen bin, and tossed the oxidized silver band in right after it. Then I rolled my luggage out the door and caught a car to the surgical center. The overhead lights in the operating room were blindingly white. Before they placed the mask over my face, I looked at my phone one last time. Kendall had just posted an update. A photo of Marcus in an apron, frosting a layered cake in a modern kitchen. The cream was slightly uneven, with a smudge of white across his cheekbone. Her caption read: "Happy 22nd birthday to me. Thank you to my personal chef." Twenty-two. She was young, indeed. I closed my eyes, a single drop of warmth slipping down my temple into my hairline. When I was twenty-two, Marcus and I were building this company from nothing, dirt poor and scraping by on instant noodles. On my birthday, he couldn't afford a bakery cake. We crammed into our tiny five-hundred-square-foot rental, using a rice cooker, two eggs, and cheap flour to steam a lopsided sponge cake. He had looked at me back then, his eyes bloodshot with emotion: "Every year from now on, I'm buying you the biggest cake in the city. Elise, I will spend my whole life being good to you." The anesthetic coursed through my IV, and the world dissolved into black. In the haze of sedation, I drifted back to when I was eighteen. The day of my mother's funeral, I had knelt alone in the freezing hallway of the crematorium, clutching the urn, with nowhere on earth to go. Marcus had knelt down beside me, placing his warm hand over my frozen knuckles, his voice barely a whisper: "I don't have parents either. Two people with nobody else in the world—if we lean on each other, maybe we'll make it." At eighteen, I had held onto his hand like a drowning person clutching a lifeline. Ten years later, I was finally letting go. ... I walked out of the clinic with a pale face and unsteady legs. The local anesthesia hadn't completely worn off. Leaning against the exterior brick wall, I shuffled toward the curb to flag a ride. My vision blacked out for a split second, and I swayed, nearly tumbling forward. A hand caught my elbow. "Ma'am, are you alright?" I shook my head, thanking the stranger, and steadied myself. Suddenly, the night sky erupted into brilliant light. A massive fireworks display painted the skyline in cascading gold and silver, blossoming into shimmering letters against the dark: "Happy 22nd Birthday, Kendall." Pedestrians stopped on the sidewalk, filming with their phones, whispering in awe. "Who spent that kind of money? Renting the harbor airspace for a birthday?" "Must be nice to be filthy rich! True romance right there." "Come on, move along. Rich people have their fireworks, we have our late-night tacos." I climbed into the back of my cab, leaned my head against the cold glass, and watched the glittering embers drift down. "Yeah," I whispered to myself. "It's beautiful." My mind drifted to a New Year's Eve a decade ago, when Marcus took the last few dollars from his pocket to buy a box of sparklers from a corner bodega. We stomped our feet on the freezing rooftop to stay warm, lighting them one by one, golden sparks showering over our worn sneakers. We chased each other around that roof, our laughter torn apart by the winter wind. We had nothing back then. Yet we had everything. At the airport terminal, I printed my boarding pass. Just before boarding, my phone chimed. A friend request popped up on the screen. Marcus: "Why aren't you home yet?" I looked at the message for several seconds. Then I powered down the phone and walked down the jet bridge. ... Marcus stared at the unaccepted friend request, his brow furrowing in irritation. The apartment was pitch-black. "Elise?" No response. He flipped on the entryway light and walked into the living room. On the center of the coffee table lay an official surgical discharge summary. Directly beneath it was a signed copy of a divorce decree. The signature line for the spouse was already filled out in her familiar, sharp cursive. Marcus's hand began to tremble. The medical summary slipped from his fingers, fluttering down to the floor.
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