The moment the car crash took my parents, the clock stopped. I was eighteen. The world didn't just end; it became a tidal wave of creditors and debt notices. I begged, tear-streaked and desperate, but the friends and "family" who had once filled our house vanished like smoke. Then, out of the wreckage, Audrey Sinclair appeared. She was my father’s former student, now the heiress to the Sinclair Empire. Under the cold, regal guise of the future Mrs. Maxwell, she paid off the last of the debt and silenced the collectors. But for the next ten years, we remained nothing more than engaged. A decade of standing on the sidelines, trapped in a bizarre holding pattern because I hadn't yet "passed the Sinclair trials." On my ninety-ninth failure—my body bruised and aching, a custom funfetti cake tucked under my arm—I accidentally overheard her talking to a friend. “Seriously, Audrey, how many times has Ethan failed the 'trials'? I’ve lost count.” “He’s pathetic, Maya. There are no 'Sinclair trials.' It was a convenient fiction to stall for time and keep Leo Harrington within reach. How has he not figured that out?” Audrey’s voice was ice. “Ninety-nine, and counting. Pity isn't in my vocabulary.” “But you’ve been engaged for ten years. The trials have to end sometime. What happens when he finds out? I heard Leo is flying back tonight.” “Leo isn't the penniless grad student he was ten years ago, he’s a Wall Street golden boy. Our companies are already merging. The Sinclair heir’s spot was always meant for The Golden Standard, Maya. For Leo. I did what I had to do to hold the line until he was worthy.” The designer cake bag crumpled in my fist. A decade. A farce. My entire salvation, the lifeline I had clung to, was just a waiting room for her real love. The trials? A punchline. Tears fell, hot and bitter. My savior was nothing more than a magnificent liar, a director who’d cast me as the star of her decade-long distraction. I wasn’t playing this role anymore. 1 “But—” Maya’s voice was cut off. “Even if I hadn’t gotten engaged to Ethan, the family would never have let me be with Leo back then. My only option was to wait until he was the kind of man the Sinclairs would accept. As for Ethan—ten years of the Sinclair name was my biggest return to him.” Maya looked sick. “You gave him access to so many resources, and he turned them all down. Then he specifically demanded Ethan be the one to broker the final deal. He’s deliberately trying to hurt him, Audrey.” “If Ethan finds out, you’ll lose him completely. He might even hate you, and you know he has nobody else.” Audrey stood up, staring out the window. “I know all of it. But I just want to be with the man I love. Is that so wrong? The next trial will be impossible. He'll walk away. It ends there. Don’t bring this up again.” “Making it impossible doesn’t mean the past disappears. Ethan fought through ninety-nine failures to marry you. He won’t just hand you over to Leo. He's human, Audrey. He’ll break.” “Enough. I never belonged to him, so there’s nothing to 'hand over.' After Leo and I marry, I'll send Ethan overseas for his doctorate. He always wanted to follow his father’s work. I’ll fund whatever he needs.” “You’re really going to see this through, aren't you? Ethan has been the one by your side for a decade. How do you know Leo is still The Golden Standard you remember?” Maya sighed. “Fine. I won’t say anything else. Do what you want.” The silence that followed was heavy. The funfetti cake, which I had spent two hours trying to keep perfect, now lay on the ground, a colorful smear on the Persian rug. It was the perfect metaphor for my love for Audrey. Crushed, unrecognizable, a sticky, bitter mess. Ten years ago, the bailiffs were at the door, and my life had imploded. I was just a terrified kid who only knew how to study. Audrey had talked me down from the roof. She went from my father’s student to my fiancée. When the Sinclairs pushed back, she spun the story of my father’s life-saving kindness to her, securing her own father’s reluctant consent. I thought our bond was a sacred debt of gratitude. But then she told me I would be the best son-in-law, put me through business school, and let me shadow the Sinclair corporate affairs. She even kissed me sometimes, a quick, intoxicating brush of lips that felt like a reward. The suspicion about the trials had always been there, but the memory of those kisses, that brief taste of us, made me swallow it all down and try again. It had all been a lie. I scrubbed the tears from my face, straightening up and forcing myself to walk away. With every step, a piece of my affection for Audrey dissolved. Before I’d made it far, I heard a familiar voice behind me. “Ethan? What are you doing out here?” I turned and faced her, forcing a hollow smile. I pointed to the pitiful mess on the ground. “I was bringing the cake. Tripped right by the door, and it slipped. Heading back out to get a new one now.” The tension instantly left her face. She spotted the scrapes and cuts on my arms. Her eyes softened with practiced concern. “You went to another trial? I told you it doesn’t matter if you pass, I've already chosen you. You don’t need to—” The genuine concern I saw on her face the previous ninety-eight times now felt revolting. One second she was sighing over her long-lost love, the next she was pouring out this saccharine affection for me. You’re a phenomenal actress, Audrey. I watched her cold performance, avoiding her hand as she reached for my wound. I knew I couldn't break the illusion yet. “I’m fine. Just clumsy. Sorry, I failed this one, too.” She was a professional. Despite my obvious coldness, she insisted on dragging me back to the Sinclair manor. She frantically searched for the first aid kit, treating my wounds as if I were a piece of priceless crystal. “Blow on it. The pain goes away.” A month ago, that sweet, maternal gesture would have melted me. Now, it made my stomach churn. This was the gilded cage she’d used to keep me compliant. She didn't notice my inner chill. She kissed my palm—the familiar, sickening comfort of it—and then she said it. The line I’d waited a decade for. “Ethan, let’s get married.” My hand, which I was about to pull away, froze. She gripped it, looking straight into my eyes. “We’ve been engaged for ten years. People are gossiping that I’m unreliable, that I’ve moved on. We’ll have a spectacular wedding. The kind that shuts up every single person who has something to say.” I watched the self-serving fantasy play out in her eyes. “But I haven’t passed the Sinclair trials? Your father wouldn’t—” She cut me off with a kiss. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you pass the final one. I promise.” It was the ninety-ninth lie. If you don’t love me, why do you care what happens to me? “Ethan? You don’t want to marry me?” Her question broke my internal loop. To hide my true expression, I pulled her into a tight hug. But the warmth of my embrace was all a performance, and my eyes were utterly cold. She mistook it for passion and launched into a breathless description of the wedding planner. The distraction was a phone call. She glanced at the screen, and her lips curved into a smile she couldn’t hide. “Ethan, work emergency. I have to go now. You stay here and rest.” She rushed off, the joy in her expression undeniable. The identity of the caller was painfully obvious. I watched her retreating back, silently reciting my eulogy for our relationship. Audrey, you saved my life. I gave you ten years of my life as a repayment. The debt is settled. After she left, the immense space of the house felt desolate. I went straight to her private study, intending to draft a separation agreement. We didn't have a marriage license, but ten years of entwined life meant we had ten years of separation to untangle. The moment I logged into her computer, I froze. Her messaging app was open. The thread was with Leo Harrington. His contact name was an emoji of a black knight. ‘Can't miss the Princess's birthday. Your Knight is flying in fast!’ Audrey’s reply: ‘Waiting for the Knight for the tenth time. ’ I scrolled, numbly, frantically, until the mouse slipped from my hand and I sagged onto the floor. I had known where she was going, but the sight of the evidence was a physical tearing in my chest. This was the truth of her "not-love." She hated texting, she said. Too impersonal. We were always calls. Always voice. Always the distance. But here? Ten years only held 3,650 days. Their messages numbered in the tens of thousands. Daily. Intimate. Love was in the volume. Love was in the banality of their daily life. The clock struck midnight. A ding from the laptop. Leo’s Instagram post. ‘Happy Birthday, My Princess. Ten years of holding the line. Get ready for the most important day of our lives, three days from now.’ The photo: Two hands, clasped. His left index finger. The small, distinct crimson mole I’d seen a hundred times on campus. I wasn’t going to bless them. I picked up my phone and sent a text to a number I hadn’t dialed in a decade. ‘Are you still waiting? Do this one thing for me. Then I fulfill my promise.’ The reply was instantaneous: ‘Yes.’
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