1 To Brooks Harrison, I was a temporary fixture. A guest who was never meant to stay. Every time I visited his penthouse, I was required to live a “disposable” life. I wore paper-thin hotel slippers; I ate with plastic cutlery; even when I stayed the night, he would produce a set of sealed, single-use travel sheets and spread them over the bed with clinical precision. “It’s just to be safe, Sera,” he’d whisper, his voice a smooth, practiced caress. “If someone—a neighbor, a maid, my mother—sees your things here, I won’t be able to explain it. Not yet.” For three years, I lived on the promise of “the next time.” The next time we’re public, I’ll buy you a real silk robe. Next time, we’ll put your name on the lease. I waited through a thousand “next times,” always walking into his home like a stranger trespassing on expensive hardwood. The illusion shattered on the night he threw a birthday party for his “star assistant,” Skylar Reed. When the door opened, I saw Skylar already inside. She was leaning against the marble counter, comfortably wearing a pair of limited-edition designer house slides—the ones Brooks had told me were “too personal” for a guest to use. As the rest of Brooks’s inner circle followed me in, they reached into the coat closet and took every remaining pair of disposable slippers. I was left standing at the threshold, my boots in my hand, staring at the empty floor. “Just walk in barefoot, Sera,” Brooks said, not even looking up from the drink he was mixing. “It’s summer. The floor isn’t cold.” He called to me as if he were addressing a courier, not the woman who had shared his bed for thirty-six months. From the doorway, I looked toward the dining table. It was set with a gorgeous, permanent set of stoneware featuring the minimalist botanical prints Skylar obsessed over. And there, tucked in the far corner like an afterthought, sat a single set of cheap, white paper plates and plastic forks. My “reserved” seat. A cold clarity washed over me. If everything in this house—and this relationship—was disposable, then I had played my part. I had been used once. Now, it was time to be thrown away. I didn’t step onto his floor. I turned around and walked out. It took twenty minutes for Brooks to realize I was gone. My phone vibrated in my pocket as I reached the street. “Where are you? Everyone’s sitting down,” his text read, followed immediately by another: “Did you seriously leave without saying a word? Is this about the slippers? Don’t be dramatic.” I didn’t reply. I was sitting in a 24-hour urgent care clinic, looking down at my feet. Blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage on my heel, a throbbing, white-hot pain. Three days ago, while Brooks and I were doing a site inspection for his new development project, I had tripped over a pile of construction debris and sliced my foot on a shard of glass. Brooks had been standing right there. He was the closest person to me. But he didn’t reach out. He didn’t even flinch. He just looked at his watch and muttered, “If you need to leave early, make sure you log it through HR. We have to keep appearances consistent.” For three years, he had maintained that “professional distance” with a fervor that bordered on cruelty. Yet, earlier that evening at the party, when Skylar had pricked her finger on a tiny splinter from a gift box, I watched him stop everything. He spent ten minutes meticulously cleaning the “wound” and wrapping it in a Band-Aid, his face etched with a tenderness I hadn’t seen in years. “Sweetie, why are you crying?” the nurse asked as she cleaned my heel. She glanced at my buzzing phone. “Bad breakup?” I wiped my face and looked at her. “Something like that.” She finished the dressing and tossed the bloody, single-use cotton swab into the biohazard bin. It landed with a soft thud. “Don’t worry,” she smiled. “The next one will be better. Some things just aren’t meant to be kept.” I took a deep breath, the trembling in my hands finally subsiding. “You’re right,” I said, a strange sense of peace settling over me. “It’s time to throw it all out.” I turned off my phone. When I finally powered it back on at home, the floodgates opened. First, fifteen missed calls from Brooks. Second, an Instagram notification. Skylar had posted a photo dump. The caption: “A little too much tequila, oops! Thanks to the best boss in the world for taking care of me ~” The photos featured the party, the expensive stoneware, and a final slide: two matching electric toothbrushes sitting in a marble holder in Brooks’s master bathroom. The comments were already a shark tank of office gossip. “Wait, who’s the boss’s secret sweetheart? Everything is color-coordinated!” “Matching toothbrushes? That’s not a ‘boss,’ that’s a husband-in-waiting!” Skylar had replied with a coy, “Don’t be crazy, guys! He has a ‘girlfriend’ somewhere, remember?” Someone immediately shot back: “What girlfriend? I’ve worked at Harrison & Associates for four years and never seen a soul. Brooks is the most eligible bachelor in the city. Go get him, Sky!” Brooks had spent three years crafting the image of a perfectly unattached, high-powered executive. I was the ghost in his machine, and I was tired of being invisible. I tapped the “heart” icon on Skylar’s post. A minute later, Brooks called. I picked up. “Skylar didn’t mean anything by that post,” he snapped, skip-jumping the greetings. “She’s young, she’s impulsive. Don’t take it to heart. I just bought those things to make her feel welcome because she’s been stressed.” Because she liked them. He allowed her to leave her mark on his sanctuary, while I was forced to use paper plates. “Tonight was a big networking opportunity, Sera,” he continued, his tone shifting to that patronizing, “reasonable” frequency. “I had to maintain the boundary—” “Which is why I left,” I interrupted, my voice flat. “My absence is the ultimate boundary, isn’t it? No one can suspect a woman who isn’t there.” There was a pause. “Sera, don’t be passive-aggressive. I’ve told you a thousand times, this is for us. Our careers—” “Brooks, is the plush towel in the left cabinet or the right one?” Skylar’s voice, honey-sweet and loud, drifted through the receiver. Brooks hung up instantly. I stared at the blank screen, remembering the one time I had stayed over and he had run to the CVS downstairs to buy me a “disposable travel towel.” It was so scratchy it left a red rash across my neck for a week. I didn’t hesitate. I dialed a number I had saved months ago. “Mr. Montgomery? It’s Sera Parker. I’ve reconsidered your offer at the London office. If the position is still open, I can start next week.” The next morning, I walked into Harrison & Associates with my resignation letter. The office was buzzing. “Did you hear? Skylar’s being fast-tracked to Junior Partner. Brooks signed off on it this morning!” “An assistant jumping straight to the business side? We all know why,” a coworker whispered as I passed. “I saw her drinking out of his personalized mug yesterday. He has a total germaphobia thing, but he didn’t even blink.” I swallowed the bitter taste in my throat. Once, I had accidentally sipped from his glass, and he had looked at me like I’d committed a felony. The next day, a box of a hundred disposable paper cups appeared on his desk, “for communal use.” “Sera? You’re resigning?” The HR director looked at me with genuine regret. “There’s a senior promotion cycle coming up at the end of the quarter. Brooks mentioned you were a top candidate… eventually.” “I’ve been here four years,” I said gently. “I’m done waiting for ‘eventually’.” She sighed. “I get it. You’ve put in more work than anyone, but for some reason, the ceiling over your head just won’t break.” I knew why. Brooks told me that if he promoted me, people would whisper about favoritism. To “protect” my reputation, he kept me stagnant. He wasn’t protecting me; he was hobbling me. Ten minutes later, I was summoned to his office. He didn’t even ask me to sit. “What is this?” He tossed the letter onto the mahogany desk. “Because Skylar got the promotion? Sera, this kind of jealousy makes you look small. It makes my job harder—” “That’s why I’m leaving,” I said. “Just like last night. If I disappear, you don’t have to worry about how things ‘look’ anymore.” He flinched, his eyes darting away. “You’re still hung up on the party. Is this a stunt? Are you trying to blackmail me into going public?” The sheer exhaustion of loving him finally hit me. I opened my mouth to speak, but the door swung open without a knock. “Brooks, it’s pouring outside and I didn’t bring an umbrella…” Skylar stood there, pouting. “I’ll drive you,” Brooks said, standing up immediately. No hesitation. He grabbed his keys. In the hallway, I heard the bullpen erupt in laughter. “Told you! He’d never let her walk in the rain. Pay up on the coffee bet!” I remembered a storm last autumn. I had a fever and no car. Brooks wouldn’t even let me borrow his umbrella because “carrying a man’s umbrella would look suspicious” if someone saw me leaving the building. Instead, he handed me a plastic emergency poncho—the kind they sell at stadiums for two dollars. I had walked to the subway in the freezing rain, shivering and humiliated. “Sera, you want a lift?” Skylar asked, leaning her head into the office. “I felt bad you missed my birthday. Let me buy you lunch to make up for it.” The office went quiet, waiting for my reaction. I looked at Brooks. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, but he didn’t defend me. He didn’t say, ‘Don’t talk to her like that.’ “No thanks,” I smiled. “I have a much better offer.” Over the next three hours, Brooks sent a string of texts. Who are you meeting? Don’t be stupid, Sera. No one else is going to give you the opportunities I have. Stop targeting Skylar. I’ll give you a lead on the next project if you stay. I didn’t read them. I was having dinner with Arthur Montgomery, the CEO of our primary global competitor. By the time dessert arrived, my flight to London was booked. That night, the company Slack channel was a shrine to Brooks and Skylar. They were at a “work dinner” that looked suspiciously like a date in a dimly lit booth at The Ivy. “She’s a bit fragile, she needs a mentor,” Brooks messaged me privately, probably seeing the same photos I was. I didn’t reply. The next morning, I went to his penthouse one last time. I had a key he didn’t know I still had. The door opened to a scene of domestic bliss. Skylar’s high heels were tossed carelessly in the foyer. “Brooks, this lipstick shade you picked is perfect!” Skylar’s voice sang out from the bedroom. On the table were two matching ceramic mugs, steam rising from fresh coffee. The disposable tissues were gone, replaced by plush guest towels in the shape of flowers. The air smelled of a custom perfume he’d clearly commissioned for her. He had built a home for her in a week. I had been a “guest” for three years. “Sera? What are you doing here?” Brooks emerged from the hallway, his face turning ghostly white. I walked past him and picked up a large FedEx box sitting by the door. It was a vintage watch I’d ordered months ago for his upcoming birthday. “We’re done, Brooks,” I said. “I’m just taking back the things that aren’t disposable.” “What are you talking about?” “Sera?” Skylar appeared behind him, clutching a mug. Her eyes went wide, then instantly filled with crocodile tears. “Oh my god, I didn’t know you two were… like that. Is that why you didn’t come to my party? Do you hate me?” She stepped toward me. “I only think of him as a brother, I swear. Let me explain—” As she reached out, her hand “slipped.” The scalding coffee splashed directly onto my silk blouse. “Skylar!” Brooks yelled. He didn’t check on me. He grabbed Skylar’s hand. “Are you okay? Did it splash on you? Stay there, I’ll get the burn cream!” I stood there, the hot liquid soaking into my skin. I didn’t know he even had burn cream. When I’d burned my hand on his kettle a year ago, he’d handed me a pair of thin plastic food-prep gloves and told me to run it under cold water. “A guy like me doesn’t keep a first aid kit, Sera. It’s too domestic.” I looked at the stain on my chest and laughed. It was the most honest thing that had happened in that apartment in years. I turned for the door. “Sera, wait!” Brooks chased me into the hall. “Don’t throw a tantrum over an accident! I told you, Skylar is like a sister. You’re my girlfriend, which is why I have to be more careful with you—” The elevator doors slid shut. I didn’t look back.
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