Every time the World Cup came around, Justin had the same routine for me: checking into the boutique hotel down the block, alone. “Delia, sweetie, you’re so sensitive, and you sleep so light. When the guys get rowdy, you’ll be up all night tossing and turning. “Just do this for me, okay? Book a room next door for the tournament. Once the finals are over, I’ll bring you back home.” To keep him happy, I did what I always did. I packed my suitcase and walked out of our shared condo. But as I sat in my car in the quiet of the underground garage, I realized I’d left my custom noise-canceling earplugs upstairs. When I reached the front door of our apartment, the muffled roar of laughter from Justin’s friends leaked into the hallway. “Justin, man, you’re really taking Carol to London for the final? Those tickets are impossible to get.” Justin’s voice carried that lazy, alcohol-softened drawl I knew so well. “The tickets weren’t the hard part. It’s the hotels—everything’s booked up over there, so we’re stuck sharing a king room.” “Delia’s practically a patient at this point. She can’t even handle a loud movie without getting a migraine. Taking her to a live match would just ruin the whole vibe. If she has any sense, she knows she’d just be a drag anyway.” My mind went entirely blank. For twelve years, I had swallowed countless anti-anxiety pills just so he could watch his matches in peace. The first tournament, I survived thirty-two days of him and his friends yelling over Discord. The second, I spent twenty-eight days nursing seltzers in crowded, thumping sports bars, using medication to suppress the physical sickness the noise triggered in my chest. And now, our new home already had a new mistress lined up. I sat there in the quiet hallway, pulled out my phone, canceled my flight to London, and booked a one-way ticket to Iceland. I wasn’t coming back. … The front door swung open before I could even reach for the handle. Justin stood there, heavy with the scent of IPAs and a trace of citrus perfume that didn’t belong to me. He stared at my suitcase, his brow instantly furrowing. “Why are you back?” There was no warmth in his voice. Only the irritation of being interrupted. “I forgot my sleep mask and my earplugs.” My voice was barely a whisper. I was terrified that if I spoke any louder, I would shatter the fragile glass holding my composure together. From the living room, Carol’s light, airy voice drifted over the music. “Justin? Seriously, don’t let Delia go to any trouble. I can just crash on the couch. I know she has that nervous condition and hates the smell of beer. I don’t want to be the reason you two fight.” Justin glanced back toward the living room, and when he turned his eyes back to me, they held nothing but casual expectation. “Delia, since you’re already here, go ahead and slice up some fruit for us, will you? And then clear out the guest room so Carol can get some rest. She’s had a bit too much to drink.” I stared at him. In our twelve years together, this kind of protective concern for his “bro” Carol made an appearance every four years. He would offer her every ounce of his gentleness and charm, leaving only chores and demands for me. “I only came to get my things,” I said, keeping my tone flat. Justin’s face darkened, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Look at how reasonable Carol is being! What do you ever do besides pout and ruin the mood? Is keeping our guests comfortable really beneath you? Stop making excuses and go do it.” Over on the sectional, one of his friends chimed in, raised cup in hand. “Delia’s ‘sensory issues’ are honestly so high-maintenance. She can’t even handle a watch party, let alone help out a friend. Taking her anywhere is like traveling with a fragile museum piece.” I didn’t reply. I walked past Justin, heading straight into the bedroom. Inside my nightstand drawer, my custom earplugs and silk eye mask lay side by side. I pulled them out, gripped them tightly in my palm, and walked right back toward the door. “Delia, what is your problem?” Justin called out behind me. I didn’t stop. I pulled the heavy front door closed, shutting out the roar of the television and the clinking of bottles. The moment I shut the door to my hotel room, my phone vibrated. It was my best friend, Becca, her voice thick with fury. “Delia, that absolute bastard!” Becca yelled. “Kyle just sent me a screenshot from their group chat. Justin bought Carol a first-class ticket to London and booked them a king suite at the Savoy!” Kyle was Becca’s boyfriend, and one of the regulars in Justin’s circle. I stared out the window at the city lights, feeling strangely hollow. “It’s fine, Becca. Don’t waste your energy on garbage.” “He knows how fragile your nervous system is, and he’s doing this… Please tell me you’re going to get some rest tonight. You must be completely exhausted.” “I will. Goodnight.” After we hung up, the hotel room returned to its quiet stillness. Then, my screen lit up again. It was a voice note from Justin. My fingers were trembling, and I accidentally tapped play. His loud, patronizing voice echoed off the sterile hotel walls. “Delia, you’re letting Becca poison your head again. You have no control over your own anxiety, you’re constantly paranoid, and now you’re dragging other people into our relationship? It’s embarrassing. Carol is my partner, my co-founder. What do you actually contribute besides drawing your little illustrations?” He always knew exactly where to slide the knife. My paranoia, my frayed nerves—he had built them piece by piece over a decade of neglect. He called Carol his partner, but every single pitch deck and design template Carol had ever presented to investors carried my layouts, my hand-drawn details, and my sleepless nights. He took everything I gave him as his birthright, then handed the credit to someone else. I didn’t type a reply. Instead, I pressed the custom earplugs deep into my ears. The world went instantly, blessedly silent. The only sound left was the slow, steady rhythm of my own breathing. For twelve years, I had lived in a state of constant compromise. He loved noise, so I choked down physical nausea to stand by his side at crowded launch parties. He protected Carol, so I forced myself to smile and pretend I was modern, cool, and unaffected. But as the morning light filtered through the hotel curtains, a sudden realization hit me. I had left my physical sketch portfolios back at the condo. Those drawings were the foundation of my brother Jamie’s upcoming surgery fund. They were a series of licensed illustrations under a signed contract, and the final files were due next week. I had been in such a rush to leave the night before, and so distracted when I went back for my eye mask, that I had completely forgotten them. By the afternoon, I was standing outside our apartment building, looking up at the ninth-floor windows. The blinds were thrown wide open, and I could see shadows moving behind the glass. The moment the elevator doors parted on the ninth floor, the noise hit me like a physical blow. The bass from the television speakers rumbled through the concrete hallway. The announcer’s raspy shouts were layered with clinking glasses and drunken cheering. The air in the corridor smelled of greasy takeout and stale IPA. I held my breath, pressed my back against the wall, and slipped into the study. Carol was sitting on our sofa, wearing the vintage designer jersey I had bought Justin for his birthday, a highball glass in her hand. When she spotted me, her lips curved into a tiny, knowing smile. She reached over and twisted the volume dial on the receiver all the way to the right. The low-frequency vibration rattled my skull, traveling through the soles of my shoes and straight into my temples. My ears began to ring—that sharp, agonizing high-pitched squeal that usually signaled a panic attack. “Just breathe,” I told myself. “Get the portfolio and get out.” I hurried into the study. The black leather folder was sitting on the mahogany desk. But just as my fingers touched the zipper, a sharp shatter echoed from the hallway. A beer bottle had broken on the hardwood. My stomach churned, and I had to press a hand over my mouth to keep from throwing up. “Oh my gosh, Delia, I’m so sorry!” Carol called out from the doorway, her eyes bright with amusement. “I didn’t realize you were back. I get so clumsy when the match gets this intense.” She leaned against the doorframe, holding her half-empty glass, a small sea of broken green glass at her feet. There was no apology in her eyes—only a cold, triumphant challenge. One of the guys sitting on the floor laughed. “Justin’s girl is such a downer. Walking in here looking like she’s attending a wake. Justin, you’ve got to upgrade before we get to London.” A chorus of chuckles followed. I clutched the heavy portfolio to my chest and walked out of the study. As I passed through the living room, I saw Justin lounging on the sectional. He had a lit cigarette between his fingers, his eyes glued to the screen. He caught sight of my pale face and scowled. “Stop acting like you’re suffering, Delia. We’re just having a few drinks. The tournament only happens once every four years. If you can’t handle a little excitement, go back to your hotel. Stop embarrassing me.” “Embarrassing.” The word felt like a rusty nail driven into a wound that had never been allowed to heal. Four years ago, during the last tournament, I spent half the night vomiting in a bar bathroom before putting on a smile to buy his friends another round. Now, he wouldn’t even allow me to occupy the same physical space. In the early days, if my symptoms flared, he would find my medication and hold a glass of water to my lips. Now, my pain was just an act to him. “This is my home,” I said. My voice was quiet, but every word was perfectly clear. “The people making the noise are the ones who need to leave.” The living room went quiet for a beat. Even the television seemed to lose its power. Justin stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked over to me. He stood a full head taller than me, using his height to crowd my space. He let out a dry, condescending laugh. “Are you out of your mind? I pay the mortgage. My name is on the deed. What right do you have to tell anyone to leave? Your little drawings barely cover the grocery bill. Without me, you wouldn’t even have a roof over your head.” He wasn’t entirely wrong about the deed. My parents had paid the full down payment in cash, but during the closing process, Justin had insisted on adding his name to the title. I had been too young, too trusting, to object. For twelve years, almost every dollar I earned from licensing had been funneled directly into his startup and our joint accounts. I had kept nothing for myself. He was used to having total control over my life, and for a long time, I had let him. I had been a quiet, efficient machine that kept his life running without ever making a demand. But I was done being a machine. Without another word, I walked back into the study, packed the portfolio into a duffel bag, and gathered my passport and birth certificate from the desk drawer. When I reached the front door, I took one last look at the apartment. Trash was piled high on the counters, Carol was curled up against Justin’s side, and Justin was lighting another cigarette, his back turned to me. “Enjoy the match,” I said. The heavy front door clicked shut behind me, and the high-pitched ringing in my ears stopped instantly. Though my head was still throbbing, I didn’t reach for my pills. I let the pain wash over me, feeling every single nerve ending. It was a useful reminder of exactly what I had tolerated for twelve years. By the third day after I left, Justin still hadn’t sent a single message, and I hadn’t reached out either. For the first time in our relationship, I refused to be the one who apologized. I spent those three days in the hotel room finishing my digital files, organizing the contract details, and confirming the date for Jamie’s surgery with his specialist. My upcoming solo exhibition was also in its final stages of preparation. The lighting, the curation, and the venue were all set for the opening tomorrow night. It was the culmination of six months of exhausting work, and the final source of funding for Jamie’s medical bills. At two o’clock in the afternoon, my phone rang. It was the gallery director. “Delia, I am so incredibly sorry,” she began, her voice tight with stress. “Justin’s office just contacted us. He’s pulled the corporate sponsorship budget and canceled the venue lease. We have to call off the exhibition.” I sat on the edge of the hotel bed, my phone pressed to my ear. “What do you mean? How can he do that?” “He told our team that the gallery space is being redirected for a private corporate event—some kind of send-off party. I’m so sorry, Delia. We had no choice…” When the call ended, I sat in the silence of the room, staring at the digital file of my show’s centerpiece. It was a painting of a vast, frozen tundra under a curtain of green auroras. Silent, empty, undisturbed. I had painted it in our study while Justin and Carol laughed in the next room, keeping my earplugs pressed deep into my ears. Six months of preparation, gone in an instant. I stood up, threw on my coat, and drove straight to Justin’s office. When I pushed open the conference room door, Justin was sitting at the head of the table, with Carol hovering over his shoulder. When Carol saw me, she immediately shrank back toward Justin, her face morphing into an expression of soft concern. “Oh, Delia. You’re here.” She tapped the printout on the table. “Justin felt your little art show was a bit too small-scale for the company’s current image. My send-off party is going to have some of our biggest tech investors in attendance. You’re helping Justin out, really. It’s not like you actually need the gallery space anyway.” I kept my eyes locked on Justin. “I signed the lease for that gallery. The funds came from my account. You had no right to cancel it.” Justin tossed his pen onto the glass table and leaned back in his chair. “Carol needs a proper send-off before we head to London. It’s a networking event. What was your little gallery show going to bring in anyway? A few thousand dollars?” He shrugged, his tone casual. “What’s mine is yours, Delia, and what’s yours is mine. Giving the space to Carol is just smart business.” “That money was for Jamie’s surgery!” He hesitated, then scowled. “I’ll cover Jamie’s medical bills. Stop using your brother as an excuse to throw a fit.” I looked at him, realizing how many times he had said those exact words. He “covered” the first round of Jamie’s bills, then quietly deducted the amount from my quarterly licensing payout. He “covered” the down payment on our home, using the money my parents had left me. Every act of generosity was a debt he forced me to pay back double. “You’re paranoid, neurotic, and insecure because you have nothing of your own,” he said, standing up and walking toward me until he was looking down at my face. “Look at yourself. You look like a bitter housewife. Why can’t you have Carol’s confidence?” Carol put in, “Delia, please don’t let this come between you two. I can talk to Justin about finding another venue…” “Don’t bother,” I said, cutting her off. Justin’s eyes narrowed. Looking at his handsome, arrogant face, I felt a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. Twelve years of swallowing pills, twelve years of stepping aside, twelve years of hoping he would finally see me. “Fine,” I said, nodding slowly. Justin blinked, clearly caught off guard by how quickly I had backed down. “Fine what?” I didn’t answer. I turned around and walked out of the room. He called my name as the door swung shut, but I kept walking. When I stepped out of the office building, the California sun was bright and hot. I stood on the sidewalk, pulled out my phone, and called my lawyer. “Mr. Adler, I want to revoke every single IP licensing agreement Justin’s company has with my portfolio. I want them pulled immediately. And I want to file the copyright infringement suit we discussed.” “Are you certain, Delia? This will completely halt their main app platform.” “Completely certain.” Next, I called Jamie’s surgeon and confirmed that the rest of his fees would be paid directly from my publisher’s international advance. Finally, I opened my chat with Justin, clicked the settings, and turned on “Do Not Disturb.” I didn’t want to hear his voice ever again. The following afternoon, Becca sent me a series of screenshots from Carol’s social media. There was a photo of two matching football jerseys draped over a suitcase. Then, a screenshot of a reservation confirmation for a penthouse suite in London, listing a single king-size bed for two guests. The caption read: “Huge thanks to the best boss ever for the VIP World Cup treatment. Some people are built for luxury, while others are stuck at home in the dark~” The comments below were just as petty. “About time Justin upgraded.” “Carol’s always been the real partner anyway.” “Some people can’t even handle a loud restaurant, let alone London. Good riddance, lol.” I looked at the images, expecting to feel a wave of anger, but there was only a dull, distant numbness. It was as if my capacity for pain had finally been worn down to nothing. I saved the screenshots and forwarded them to Mr. Adler as additional evidence of asset diversion. A moment later, a voice note from Justin arrived. I tapped it. “Delia, sweetie, stop being dramatic. We’re wrapped up in the VIP event prep right now. It’s too loud and crowded for your head anyway, so don’t worry about stopping by. We’re staying at a hotel near the venue tonight. Just pack your passport and get to the airport early tomorrow. When we get to London, you can have half of the king bed. See? I’m taking care of you.” He spoke as if he were handing me a prize. I typed a single word: “Okay.” I went back to our empty condo one last time. The place was clean—he must have hired a service to scrub away the party from the night before. I opened the closet. It was filled with the luxury items Justin had bought me over the years: designer bags, bracelets, diamond studs. Every single gift had come with strings attached. “Wear this dress to this dinner. Carry this bag to this gala.” They weren’t presents; they were props to make him look good. I packed every single piece into a cardboard box, taped it shut, and scheduled a courier to deliver it to his office front desk. Then I called Mr. Adler. “Is the filing ready?” “All set, Delia. The moment the courthouse doors open tomorrow morning, we submit.” “Good.” A text notification popped up on my screen. My ticket to London had been issued. I logged into the airline app, pulled up the reservation, and clicked “Change Flight”. I kept the departure time, but changed the destination. I booked a seat on a flight heading to Reykjavik, Iceland. It was the first stop of my solo international tour, a project I had been planning for three years. I had hesitated for months, wondering if I was ready, if I could afford to leave Justin, if I was strong enough to chase a dream on my own. I wasn’t hesitating anymore. The ticket was confirmed. The next afternoon, Justin, Carol, and their inner circle gathered in the airport’s VIP lounge. Carol was wearing her matching jersey, laughing loudly, while the guys cheered Justin on for booking first-class seats and a penthouse suite. Justin leaned back on the leather sofa, handing Carol a bottle of sparkling water. “We’re getting to London early, so you have the run of the place for the next month.” Carol smiled, her eyes lingering on his. “I might just hold you to that.” The guys whistled. Justin grinned, basking in the attention. He pulled out his phone, deciding to send me a quick text to tell me to hurry up. He hit send. A bright red exclamation mark popped up. “Message could not be delivered. You are no longer connected with this contact.” He blinked, assuming it was a temporary network error, and dialed my number. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” Justin stared at the screen for a moment, then set the phone face down on the table. He figured I was just playing games. “She’ll behave once we’re in London,” he thought. Carol pulled him over to the duty-free boutique. She pointed to a limited-edition leather bag with a six-figure price tag. “Justin, isn’t this beautiful?” “It is,” he said, pulling out his corporate card and handing it to the cashier. The cashier swiped it, paused, and looked up. “I’m sorry, sir. This card has been declined.” Justin frowned. “Try this one.” Declined. He tried a third card. Declined. He emptied his wallet, handing over card after card. Every single one came back declined. The cashier’s professional smile faded into a look of quiet judgment. Carol’s smile vanished. “Justin… what’s going on?” Without answering, Justin opened his mobile banking app. “Account Balance: $0.00.” He called his bank’s private client line. After a long wait through a automated piano track, the representative informed him that all his personal and corporate accounts had been frozen by a federal court order due to a pending intellectual property lawsuit. He hung up, his hands suddenly cold. Around him, the lounge was still humming with activity, his friends laughing over a card game, entirely unaware of his sudden ruin. Justin walked over to a quiet corner and tried dialing my number again. “No longer in service.” He tried twelve times, his thumb striking the screen with increasing desperation. Each time the automated voice answered, his chest tightened further. Suddenly, his phone rang. It was Trevor, his technical director. “Justin!” Trevor’s voice was shaking. “The app is dead! All our core UI assets have been flagged for copyright infringement and pulled from the App Store! We just got a cease-and-desist from Delia’s legal team. They’re suing for thirty million dollars!” Justin’s head spun. “What are you talking about?” “The company is in freefall! Our servers are offline, our investors are pulling out, and customer service is getting slammed!” Justin ended the call and quickly dialed Brad, one of his friends who was still back in the city. “Brad, do me a massive favor. Go to Delia’s hotel and our condo right now. Find her and bring her to the airport. Do whatever it takes.” Brad agreed, but twenty minutes later, his voice on the phone sounded hollow. “Justin… the hotel said Delia checked out first thing this morning. And…” Brad hesitated. “I went by your place. There’s a real estate lockbox on the door. An agent is inside showing the condo to buyers.” Justin’s hand went numb. The phone nearly slipped from his grasp. He leaned against the terminal wall, the ambient noise of the airport suddenly feeling muffled and far away. “That’s impossible!” he stammered, his voice cracking. “She’s sick! She can’t even handle a loud noise, let alone survive without my income! How could she sell the place?” Brad had no answers. Justin had no choice but to tell Brad to head to the gate so they wouldn’t miss the flight. He stared at his first-class ticket to London, and the printed confirmation for the Savoy penthouse. He had planned to present it to me at the gate, waiting for me to apologize and beg for his forgiveness. The airport intercom crackled to life. “This is the final boarding call for Flight 88 to London. All ticketed passengers, please proceed to Gate 42 immediately.” Carol walked over, her eyes scanning his pale face. “Justin? Are we boarding or what?” The rest of the group gathered around, waiting. Justin stood in the center of the terminal, clutching his useless ticket, his world quietly falling apart.
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “544701”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel
Leave a Reply