Chapter 2

Chloe's POV

Today was supposed to be our sixth anniversary.

Three months ago, Austin slipped the paperwork for our marriage license into my hand. He told me that from this day on, we would celebrate this date under a new status.

I believed him.

I took the day off work. I wore the white silk blouse he once told me looked beautiful on me. I even packed the velvet ring box in my purse.

But the appointment time passed. Austin never showed.

When I called him for the third time, the line connected. I could hear applause in the background. A girl's voice, thick with tears, whimpered, "Mr. Vance, can I really do this? I'm so scared I'll ruin the show."

Austin's voice was hushed. "Vivian is doing her first big brand runway today, Chloe. I can't leave her. We can sign the papers another day. It doesn't have to be today just because of some anniversary."

I watched a young couple laughing and hugging near the steps. My fingers slowly let go of my purse.

I had been with Austin for six years. I knew better than anyone how much he used to care about milestones.

He used to remember the anniversary of my mother's passing. He would buy me flowers every time I wrapped up a major project. He planned every anniversary to perfection.

But this year, that devotion found a new owner.

When Vivian said she was afraid of the dark, he drove across the city at midnight to help her adjust the lighting in her studio.

When Vivian said she didn't understand camera angles, he canceled our dinner plans to personally review her video scripts.

It turned out the date itself was never important. What mattered was who he wanted to spend it with.

I asked, "Austin, do you still want to marry me?"

The phone went dead silent.

That silence was a slap in the face.

I folded the appointment sheet in half. My voice was barely a whisper. "Then let's break up."

It was as if Austin had been waiting for those exact words. He answered almost instantly. "Fine."

Six years of love. A morning that was supposed to make us husband and wife. To him, it ended with a single, effortless word.

Right after I hung up, Vivian sent me a snap.

In the photo, she stood on the runway stage. Austin's blazer was draped over her shoulders. Her eyes were shiny with tears.

Austin stood beside her, leaning in to adjust her microphone.

The caption was short: So glad I have you.

I stared at it for a long time. Then, I typed back: Good luck with the show.

I blocked Austin's number immediately. As I stood up, a wave of nausea hit me.

I grabbed the back of a bench, forcing the sick feeling down.

The Uber driver asked where to.

I looked at the city lights blurring outside the window. My voice was hoarse. "Home. I need to pack."

Halfway there, a text popped up on my laptop from Austin's iCloud: Stop throwing a tantrum. Let's talk when I get home tonight.

I looked at the screen and wanted to laugh.

To him, my forty minutes of waiting, the sound of another woman's voice, and my breaking point were all just a "tantrum."

He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't ask how long I had waited.

He just assumed I would be waiting at the apartment. He assumed I couldn't let go of him. He assumed six years of habit would drag me right back to his feet.

I shut my laptop. I didn't reply.

The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror and handed me a tissue.

I took it, but I didn't cry.

I pulled the ring box out of my bag and opened it.

The ring was simple. I had picked it out myself.

Austin had promised he would slide it onto my finger at City Hall.

Now, he didn't have to.

I snapped the box shut and put it in my coat pocket. Not because I couldn't let go, but because I wanted to remind myself: some promises are real when they are made, but they rot just as quickly.

I couldn't pretend something wasn't dead just because it used to be alive.

When I reached our building, I didn't go up right away. The windows of our penthouse were dark. I knew what was inside. The sofa we bought together, the plush rug he insisted on buying because he hated the cold winter floors, the floor plan of the nursery we had passionately discussed.

Those things were still there. But our future was gone.

Standing in the cold wind, I opened our shared Google Calendar. One by one, I deleted the events: Sign marriage license, wedding ring fitting, dinner with parents.

Finally, my phone prompted: Do you want to keep the shared photo album?

I stared at the prompt. I tapped Keep. Not out of sentiment, but because I didn't have the strength to process six years of memories today.

You can't rip out a deep wound on day one.

I just needed to pack my things, get out of that apartment, and slowly crawl out of the wreckage of my past.