The engagement party was well underway, but Rhys was nowhere in sight. I called him countless times. Nothing. Not a single text back. Not until I saw the post on Sloane’s Instagram story. “Someone has been flying back-to-back for work, but because I wanted to, he dropped everything to come swimming with me.” The picture was a selfie of her and Rhys in an indoor pool. In the background, tossed carelessly aside, was the familiar crimson fabric of my vintage family heirloom gown. Facing a ballroom full of guests, I announced I was calling the whole thing off. Six years. Six years I had loved him. I was simply—tired. 1 The guests had long dispersed when Rhys finally called. A spike of irritation shot through me, yet I answered anyway, a perverse reflex. Rhys’s voice was laced with an impatient indifference. “Gemma, come to The Meridian Club and pick up Sloane and me.” I looked down, my voice dangerously calm. “I’m nearby.” The club was less than two blocks from the hotel. “How could you possibly be nearby?” Then, a beat of realization, and a casual, dismissive “Ah.” “Oh, right, I forgot about today. Look, we’ll do the engagement next time. Just come pick us up first.” I didn’t respond. He continued, his tone hardening with authority. “It’s just an engagement, Gemma. Don’t start throwing a tantrum. Just come get me.” It’s just an engagement. That was it, wasn’t it? To him, my sincerity, my commitment, my grandfather’s final gift—that gown—none of it meant anything. Before the party, he swore he had to fly out for a last-minute deal, promising to be back the day before. He did come back, only to run straight to Sloane. I hung up, my chest aching with a dull, heavy pressure. A moment later, Rhys updated his own feed: “My little one loves to stay active.” The photo was a full-body shot of Sloane in a flattering swimsuit, proudly showing off her figure by the pool. A strange, acrid taste of nausea rose in my throat. I let out a sharp, empty laugh. In that moment, I finally saw how completely superfluous I was in this six-year relationship. The obsession, the fierce loyalty I’d maintained for so long, vanished into thin air. 2 Rhys finally stumbled in around two in the morning. His luggage—a couple of overstuffed weekend bags—was dumped unceremoniously in the living room. I glanced at his messy collar, catching a faint, dark smudge of lipstick and the unmistakable look of a hasty cleanup. He scowled, his tone instantly aggressive. “Gemma. What the hell is this? What’s with all the drama?” I stopped packing my own small box of essentials. My voice was ice. “We’re done. You need to move out.” “Seriously? Over this?” He scoffed. “I just forgot the date. You know how slammed I’ve been with work.” I let out a cold laugh. “Slammed enough to forget your own engagement, but not too busy to go swimming with someone else?” I paused, the air suddenly thin. “Where is the dress?” A flicker of guilt—fast, but visible—crossed his face. He pressed his lips together. “That old thing? I don’t know where I tossed it. I’ll pay you for it.” He pulled out his phone, ready to transfer money. “Twenty thousand? That should cover it.” The anger I’d suppressed all night finally erupted, scalding and pure. “No! You know exactly how much that gown meant to me!” My voice cracked. “It was my grandfather’s final gift. It’s not something you can just slap a price tag on!” He rolled his eyes, a sound of supreme impatience. “So what? Fine, I’ll add another ten thousand. Does that finally shut you up?” Ding-dong. My phone vibrated: three thousand dollars deposited. He looked utterly unbothered. “Look, I’m exhausted. Let’s just cool off tonight, okay?” He strode into the guest room and slammed the door shut. I stared at the closed door, and the last, microscopic flicker of warmth I held for him—the hope that he was still the man I fell for—was extinguished. I picked up my phone and dialed a number. “Hey, Lou. I need a reliable moving company… first thing in the morning.” 3 Perhaps it was the prick of a guilty conscience, but he was up ridiculously early, making breakfast. He held up a bacon and cheese croissant. “Your favorite. See?” This was his usual pathetic routine: a cheap, flimsy gesture of placation meant to paper over a massive betrayal. Before, I would have melted. Today, I was granite. “I’m not hungry,” I said, coolly. “I’m heading to work.” I was halfway to the garage when he rushed after me, breathless. “Let’s ride together?” I stopped, one eyebrow arched in genuine surprise. “Weren’t you worried about discretion?” He was a shareholder; I was a project manager at Crestwood Global. For years, he’d strictly forbidden me from publicizing our relationship, maintaining a glacial distance in the office, acting like we were barely acquainted. He flushed, realizing his contradiction. “The garage is usually empty this early. No one will see.” I didn’t argue. I pulled open the passenger door. The seat was covered in a ridiculous mound of plush toys, and tucked into the seat back was a little customized plaque that read: "Sloanie's Spot!" Rhys stammered, scrambling to throw the toys into the back seat. “Sloane, you know. She just hitches a ride sometimes. She’s being ridiculous.” A sour, metallic taste flooded my mouth. I used to have to meticulously check his car for stray hairs or crumbs before I rode with him. Once, I’d accidentally left my ID on the floor, and he’d lost his mind, throwing it at me and warning he’d toss it in the garbage if I ever left a trace again. Now, he tolerated a whole zoo of a grown woman's tacky toys. Watching him struggle to clear the mess, I felt only annoyance. “Don’t bother. I’ll take my own car.” I turned, but he grabbed my arm. “Let me drive. We haven’t spent time together.” I glanced at the panic in his eyes, but I was running late. I didn’t have the energy to fight him. I got in. 4 The entire drive, he kept up a stream of meaningless small talk, which I met with monosyllabic replies. As we merged onto the freeway ramp, his phone rang. Sloane’s voice immediately chirped through the car’s Bluetooth speakers. “Rhys… I feel so terrible…” My stomach clenched. I knew that tone. Rhys’s voice instantly went tight with frantic concern. “Sloane? What is it? Where does it hurt? Wait, don’t move, I’m coming right now!” He whipped his head toward me, his voice sharp and commanding. “Get out. Now! I have to turn around.” We were in heavy traffic, practically stopped on the overpass. Get out? I looked at him, genuinely aghast. “Are you out of your mind? We’re on the…” The flash of cold steel in his eyes made me immediately bite back the rest of my sentence. This wasn't the first time. Every time we had a moment together, a single phone call from Sloane and he would abandon me without a thought. Arguing was useless. He seemed to realize how harsh he sounded and offered a flimsy excuse. “It’s only a short walk to the office from here. I don’t know how sick Sloane is, and she doesn’t have family nearby. I’m all she’s got, Gemma. Just try to understand!” I said nothing. I just got out. His car swerved immediately, leaving a trace of exhaust fumes, accelerating away without a second’s hesitation. The cold November air seeped into my coat, and I shivered. I pulled out my phone to call a ride-share, but as I stepped toward the shoulder, a car cutting through traffic clipped me. I stumbled, scraping my elbow and knee hard on the asphalt. 5 I was sitting on a hard plastic chair in the hospital waiting area, waiting for my name to be called for an X-ray. Rhys called. “What is your problem? Still pouting and skipping work?” His voice was furious. “It’s your project presentation today, and they said you’re a no-show. How old are you? Stop letting personal drama bleed into professional life! If this happens again, you might as well resign!” I opened my mouth to explain—to tell him I’d been hit by a car, that I was in the hospital. But he didn’t give me a second to speak. He slammed the phone down. I sat there, dumbfounded, the phone still hot in my hand. I felt like I’d been doused in a bucket of ice water. I looked up just as Rhys, his face etched with worry, carefully helped Sloane walk past me. He was murmuring reassurances to her, a constant stream of tender concern. It was the type of gentle care I had spent six years craving, but never once received. I closed my eyes and drew a long, shaky breath. Enough. That was it. I was exhausted, truly, finally exhausted. 6 I felt like my body was coming apart at the seams when I left the hospital. I called the moving crew and had the last of Rhys’s belongings delivered directly to Sloane’s apartment. I sat in my now-empty living room, just letting myself be blank. The front door suddenly burst open. Rhys stood there, eyes blazing with fury. “Gemma! What the hell is this stunt you’re pulling?” “You ditch work, and then you send all my things to Sloane’s place? Are you completely insane?!” I lifted my gaze, noticing the bandages wrapped around my elbow and knee. “You… you’re hurt?” “Yes. Small accident on the way to work this morning.” He flinched, unwilling to probe further. But he remained defiant. “It’s not my fault you got into a wreck! That doesn’t give you the right to throw my things out!” My voice was flat. “Rhys, we’re breaking up.” He frowned. “Don’t say things you don’t mean!” I sighed. “I’m serious. It’s over. I’m setting you and Sloane free.” His face twisted with the irritation of a manipulator caught red-handed. “You are so jealous! I can’t stand your insecurity!” He spat the next words out. “If you leave, don’t come crawling back and begging me to take you back!” For three years, we’d fought countless times over Sloane. It was always him who threatened to leave, and me who would swallow my pride, apologize, and beg him to stay. Not this time. I would not be humble anymore. “Go. I won’t regret this. We’re finished.” My gaze was steady, unwavering. His face turned a sickly, dark color. He glared at me one last time, then slammed the door on his way out. I looked at the closed door and reminded myself to call a locksmith tomorrow. 7 The moment I walked into Crestwood Global, the CEO’s assistant summoned me. “Gemma, your position… there’s going to be a slight shift.” The leader explained that my project manager role was being revoked. The major account I was finalizing would be handed over to Sloane. He patted my shoulder, feigning regret. “Your work ethic is stellar, and the company values you. It’s just… have you perhaps offended someone recently?” Who else but Rhys? He’d always subtly discouraged my success, worried I would overshadow Sloane. He’d previously suggested I quit, saying our corporate overlap “looked bad.” Now, he’d just yanked the rug out from under me. I kept my expression neutral, forcing a slight smile. “No problem. I understand.” Inside, my stomach churned, a humiliated fury burning in my chest. When I got back to my area, Sloane was directing a few colleagues to empty the office. She turned, her smile sickeningly smug. “Gemma, sweetheart. So sorry. This space is mine now.” She pointed to a messy pile of cardboard boxes in the corner. “I packed up your things for you. You can take them now.” I looked at the haphazardly dumped personal items and clenched my fists. I gave her a freezing look, walked to the corner, and picked up the boxes. They were light. Inside were a few textbooks, and a small, gaudy 'Cornerstone' statuette Rhys had given me years ago, engraved with a meaningless corporate motto. As I carried the boxes out, I passed Sloane. She chirped, dripping with false concern, “Bye, Gemma. Don’t trip on your way out.” I stopped. I turned back, a cold smile curving my lips. “Sloane. You better pray you never fall into my lap.” The major client, The Prescott Group, had partnered with Crestwood because of my expertise. If I was out, that project was going to tank. 8 I was already planning to quit. A headhunter had been pursuing me for months with an offer far superior to my current one, but because of Rhys, I kept putting them off. Looking back, I felt like an utter fool, sacrificing career opportunities for a man who didn't love me. As I walked down the hallway, my foot snagged on something. I pitched forward. My boxes flew, scattering my belongings. The cheap 'Cornerstone' award shattered on the marble floor. The unhealed wounds on my knee immediately burst open with a sharp, blinding pain. “Oh my god, Gemma, are you okay?” Sloane’s voice was laced with unconcealed triumph. “Why are you so clumsy? Next time, you really should watch where you’re going.” I knew, with absolute certainty, she had tripped me. A few colleagues gathered, whispering, but no one offered a hand to help me up. I laughed, a humorless, empty sound. I looked straight at Sloane’s faux-innocent face. “Don’t celebrate too soon, Sloane. The smell of low-grade ambition is really repulsive on you.” Her expression immediately darkened. “What did you say?” Rhys appeared from around the corner, saw my bloodied state, and immediately launched into a rage, not concern. “Gemma! Why aren’t you at your desk? What is this spectacle? You’re always causing drama!” I pushed myself up, my knee throbbing. Rhys saw the blood and instinctively reached for me. I slapped his hand away. “Don’t bother with the fake compassion! Get lost, you despicable pair!” Rhys’s face went white with shock, but he couldn't find a single word to say. I staggered away, letting the blood drip down my leg. I walked straight to HR and handed in my resignation. Outside the building, I pulled out my phone and called the headhunter. “Hello, is this Mr. Prescott’s office? It’s Gemma. About that position we discussed? I’m ready to talk now.” The manager’s voice on the other end was a surge of surprised delight.
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