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At 2:17 in the morning, I watched another man sit in my driveway with the woman I had planned to marry, and when she finally walked through the door, she acted as though I was the one who owed an explanation. Eight minutes had passed between the time Derek pulled up and the moment Victoria stepped out of his car. Eight minutes of laughter, silhouettes leaning toward each other, and the sickening realization that I had spent months saving for a diamond while my girlfriend had been building a life I wasn’t allowed to question.

Chapter 1 / 4

Chapter 1

Victoria kicked off her heels in the entryway and stopped when she saw me on the couch. “You’re still up?” she asked, as casually as if it were ten o’clock instead of nearly two-thirty. She smelled faintly of restaurant food and wine, and her lipstick had faded from her mouth.

“Working late again?” I asked.

She sighed. “The Carmichael presentation. It was a nightmare, but we finally got it where it needs to be.”

“That’s the third time Derek’s brought you home after midnight.”

Her expression changed instantly. The tiredness disappeared, replaced by irritation. “Here we go.”

I was thirty-three, old enough to know that shouting rarely makes anyone listen. I kept my voice even. “I’m asking why my girlfriend keeps coming home at two in the morning with the same man.”

“Derek is my coworker, Chase. We work together.”

“I understand what a coworker is.”

“Apparently you don’t understand what deadlines are.” She folded her arms. “Sometimes people in marketing work late. Sometimes somebody gives somebody else a ride. Not everything is a scandal.”

Three months earlier, I might have accepted that explanation. Back then, Derek had simply been the new guy at Victoria’s agency, a talented designer who knew every Adobe shortcut ever invented. First he helped her with presentations. Then they grabbed lunch to discuss accounts. Then her car supposedly developed problems and Derek started giving her rides.

Three weeks earlier, Victoria had texted at 11:47 p.m. saying they were finishing a pitch deck. She arrived at 1:23 with messy hair and a story about stopping for food. Two weeks later, there had been a “client emergency.” She came home at 1:51, laughing too loudly and admitting they had drinks because they needed to decompress.

I hadn’t accused her of cheating either time. I had simply asked questions.

Each question somehow became evidence of a defect in me.

That night, she shook her head and gave me the look people reserve for children behaving badly in public. “You’re being jealous and controlling.”

“I’m controlling because I’m uncomfortable with this?”

“You’re insecure about Derek. That’s not my responsibility.”

“I’m not asking you to take responsibility for my feelings. I’m asking you to care that I have them.”

“This is exactly why I don’t tell you things. You make everything weird.” She picked up her heels and headed for the stairs. “He’s just a friend.”

I looked at her then—really looked at her. Not at the woman I’d spent nearly four years loving, but at the woman standing ten feet away. Her anger had arrived before any attempt to reassure me. She hadn’t said, Chase, I understand why that looks bad. She hadn’t offered to introduce boundaries or make changes.

She had made my discomfort the crime.

“You’re probably right,” I said.

Victoria stopped.

“I am?”

“I’m probably too jealous.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “Okay. Good. I’m glad you can admit that.”

“I’m exhausted,” she added. “I’m taking a shower.”

She disappeared upstairs. A minute later, water began running through the pipes.

I remained on the couch until I heard the bathroom door close. Then I stood, walked into our bedroom, and opened the closet.

The condo had three bedrooms. I’d bought it two years before Victoria moved in, after years of saving, and the spare bedroom still had a queen bed, a dresser, and an empty closet. It had always been intended for visiting family.

.

That night, it became something else.

I carried Victoria’s dresses down the hall one armful at a time. Then her shoes. Her jewelry box. Her chargers, books, cosmetics, hair products, and the framed photograph of us in Charleston that had sat on her nightstand.

I wasn’t angry anymore.

That frightened me more than anger would have.

By 3:45 a.m., the master bedroom looked as though one person lived there.

I slept for less than three hours.

At seven-fifteen, Victoria came downstairs in her robe and poured coffee into her favorite blue mug. She added oat milk, stirred in sugar, and turned toward the kitchen table.

Then she saw the boxes in the hallway.

“Why are those there?”

I looked up from my phone. “They’re yours.”

Her hand jerked. Coffee sloshed over the rim, splashing her fingers and robe. “What?”

“I moved your things into the guest room.”

She stared at me.

“You did what?”

.
Disclaimer: This story is fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. Any names, characters, places, or events are fictitious or used fictitiously. No real person or organization is intended to be portrayed.

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