Chapter 3

"I couldn't."

He set the bag on the coffee table, sat down naturally beside me, and reached out to touch my cheek.

"Your dark circles are terrible. Eat something and go get some sleep. Take the day off."

I flinched away from his hand.

His fingers froze in mid-air, hovering awkwardly before slowly dropping back down.

"Chloe."

He sighed, his tone dripping with exhaustion. "Are you still mad?"

I didn't say a word.

He went ahead and opened the bag, sticking a straw into my iced coffee and placing it in front of me.

"Eat first. We can talk after."

He was always like this.

So smooth, so effortlessly gentle.

No matter what happened, he could act as if nothing was wrong and continue being the "perfect" boyfriend.

I used to think this was maturity. I thought it was his way of showing love.

Now I knew better. It wasn't love; it was dismissiveness.

He used this superficial sweetness to sweep real issues under the rug.

Like a beautiful piece of wrapping paper hiding a rotten apple.

"Julian."

My voice was dry and raspy.

"Yeah?"

"Where did you sleep last night?"

His hand tearing the bagel paused. "At Carter's."

"What did you talk about?"

"Nothing much. Just had a few drinks." He handed me a piece of the bagel. "Stop overthinking. Carter just has a loose tongue. He already apologized to you, didn't he?"

I didn't take the bagel.

Instead, I stood up and walked into the bedroom.

I reached into the bottom drawer of the closet and pulled out a thick, off-white envelope with frayed edges.

I had seen this envelope many times. It was always tucked beneath his neatly folded winter sweaters.

Whenever I asked what it was, he would say it was just old tax documents and work papers. Unimportant.

Unimportant.

If it was so unimportant, why was it hidden at the very bottom of his drawer?

Why was it buried under his clothes?

Why did he never let me look inside?

I brought the envelope to the living room and threw it onto the table in front of him.

The moment Julian saw the envelope, his face changed.

That stoic, unflappable mask of his finally cracked.

The photos slid out onto the table.

In the pictures, the woman was laughing, reading, looking at the camera, or looking away in various settings.

In every single photo, she looked fifty to sixty percent like me.

"Give me an explanation," I said, staring at him.

He frowned, his voice rising. "You went through my things?"

"They fell out because you didn't put them away properly," I lied. "If I hadn't seen those messages, and if these photos hadn't fallen out, how long were you planning to keep this from me?"

I looked at him, emphasizing every word. "Julian, I am asking you one last time. Who is she?"

"Or do you want me to say it—"

"Chloe, the past doesn't matter!"

He cut me off, his voice ice-cold.

"I am with you now. We've been together for eight years. You know exactly how well I’ve treated you during these years."

"Treated me well?"

I laughed, my eyes burning.

"Did you treat me well because of who I am, or because I'm a cheap replica of her?"

"Enough!"

Julian slammed his hand on the table as he stood up, making the coffee cup rattle.

The iced coffee spilled, the dark liquid soaking into the photos.

"Do you have to be like this?"

He looked down at me, his usual warmth entirely replaced by a harsh, unfamiliar coldness.

"What is the point of digging up the past? This all happened before I even met you. I haven't cheated on you. I haven't done anything to betray you. What are you throwing a tantrum for?"

"A tantrum?"

I couldn't believe my ears.

Being kept in the dark as a placeholder for eight years was just a "tantrum" to him?

Looking at the stranger standing in front of me, a deep, heavy exhaustion washed over me.

"Let's break up," I said.