Six years. Six years of living out of a suitcase, flying from one city to another. If you mapped out my flight paths, they’d look like a chaotic spiderweb spun by a blind spider, crisscrossing the country. And yet, after years of preparing for the Senior Product Lead promotion, I lost. To an intern who had been with the company for exactly four weeks. She threw herself into the arms of my boyfriend of six years—the man I had been secretly dating in the shadows of this office. She squealed, practically vibrating with excitement. “Wright! I actually did it!” Wright laughed, a warm, indulgent sound I hadn’t heard directed at me in years. He wrapped his arms around her waist. But when he caught me watching, his smile flattened. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by that cool, professional mask. “She needs the win for her resume, Sylvie,” he told me later, his voice incredibly casual. “Let her have this one. You’ll have plenty of opportunities in the future.” The future. He was always asking me to wait. Wait for a public relationship. Wait for the wedding he kept pushing back. Wait for the promotion that was always just out of reach. But Wright, I’m twenty-eight now. I’m not the starry-eyed girl who walked into this office at twenty-two. I can’t keep lying to myself. My hand trembled as I wiped away the cold tear slipping down my cheek. I pulled up my messages and texted my parents back in Ohio. Mom, Dad. I want to come home. I’ll do what you wanted. I’ll let you set me up. I’m ready to settle down. … 1 Right after the text sent, the screen flickered and died. Blackout. I stared at the outdated iPhone, a model so old it couldn’t even run the latest software updates, and let out a dry, bitter laugh. To survive in this expensive city, I’d pinched every penny. I skipped dinners, bought generic, and worked late hours just to prove I belonged. But my luck was always a step behind. I remained stuck in the cubicles, a permanent mid-level grunt. A sudden draft from the open window blew through the conference room, scattering my thick stack of handwritten market research papers across the desk. This morning, when I walked into the office, everyone was already congratulating me. Even I believed that my years of eating dirt had finally paid off. Instead, Gigi, the sweet-faced twenty-two-year-old intern, presented a flashy, five-slide PowerPoint deck that completely overshadowed my six years of technical expertise. And the person who officially announced her promotion was Wright. My boss, and my secret boyfriend. Wright always hated teaching. Whenever I asked him for advice early in my career, he’d tell me he was too busy, that hand-holding bred weakness. Yet, he had happily taken Gigi under his wing, personally guiding her through every step of her project. A light knock on my desk broke my train of thought. Gigi stood there, her arm casually looped through Wright’s. She beamed at me. “Wright is throwing me a little victory party tonight at that new spot downtown. You coming, Sylvie?” Wright had rules. We had to remain professional. We had to keep at least a physical arm’s length between us at all times in the office to avoid “gossip.” Apparently, those rules didn’t apply to Gigi. The harsh fluorescent lights of the conference room beat down on me. I knew my face must have looked horribly pale, but I forced my lips to curve upward. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be there.” I needed this. I needed to see it all to finally kill whatever hope I had left. Wright’s brow twitched. A faint crease formed between his eyes. He was surprised. I never went to company happy hours anymore. Usually, I’d already be on my way back to our apartment, prepping dinner, doing his laundry, waiting like a loyal dog for his key to turn in the lock. Gigi was thrilled. In the Uber on the way to the restaurant, she chatted endlessly, mostly complaining about how “bossy” Wright was. “I ordered an iced Americano when I was on my period, and he literally snatched it out of my hand,” she giggled, rolling her eyes playfully. “He made me drink hot lemon water for a solid week. Like, who even does that?” She held up a manicured finger to emphasize her point. My chest tightened so hard I felt a physical pang. I had to bend over slightly to catch my breath. The Wright she was describing was a man I didn’t know. The last time my cramps were so bad I was sweating through the sheets, Wright had spent the entire night locked in his study, ignoring my whimpers because he had “critical financial reports” to review. “Sylvie? Are you okay?” Gigi asked, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I’m fine,” I lied, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Just haven’t eaten all day.” “Oh, I was going to skip dinner too—trying to stay in shape, you know?” Gigi sighed, though her eyes sparkled with pride. “But Wright ordered literally half the menu from UberEats for my desk earlier. He said he didn’t know what I liked, so he just bought everything. It was so extra.” I pressed my hand against my stomach, trying to suppress the physical nausea building inside me. I couldn’t look at her anymore. At the restaurant, the private dining room was loud, and the spotlight remained firmly on Wright and Gigi. “Gigi, getting that promotion so fast… we all know Wright was your guardian angel,” one of the senior account managers teased, nudging her. “How are you ever going to repay him?” “I say she marries him!” someone else chimed in from the end of the table. Gigi’s cheeks flushed a bright pink, and she hid her face behind her hands. Wright didn’t shut them down. Instead, a lazy, amused smile played on his lips. After six years with him, I knew every line on his face. I knew that specific smile. He was genuinely happy. He liked being linked to her. A few drinks later, someone suggested a game of Truth or Dare, using an empty wine bottle. When the neck of the bottle spun and pointed directly at me, Gigi leaned forward, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Sylvie, you always rush home right at five. Do you have a secret boyfriend or something?” I stared at the shifting colors of the neon sign outside the window, then looked back at her. I smiled softly. “No,” I said, my voice quiet but clear. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” Clink. The sound of glass hitting the mahogany table shattered the brief silence. Wright’s wine glass had slipped from his hand, spilling red wine across the white tablecloth. He wiped his fingers with a napkin, his face completely expressionless. His gaze swept across the table, lingering on everyone else, deliberately skipping over me. “Sorry,” he muttered, his voice dry. “Slipped.” The moment passed quickly, drowned out by the noise of the party. My phone finally finished rebooting, buzzing in my purse. A single text message popped up. What is wrong with you tonight? When we first started working at the same firm, we agreed to keep our contact names strictly professional to avoid any slips. My phone saved him as “Mr. Thorne,” and his saved me as “Sylvie – Marketing.” Back then, Wright had hated it. He used to complain, burying his face in my neck, whining like a needy stray. “It sucks having the most beautiful girlfriend in the world and having to pretend you’re just a colleague.” To appease his frustration, I’d let him have his way in bed, letting him hold me in whatever desperate, possessive ways he wanted. But over the years, he stopped complaining. He climbed the corporate ladder rapidly, eventually becoming the VP of the entire division—my boss’s boss. Then, a few months ago, I saw his phone buzz. Gigi’s contact name was saved as “Gigi 🌸” with a heart next to it. When I confronted him about it, Wright had simply adjusted his cuffs, his tone patronizingly calm. “Sylvie, how old are you? You’re really getting jealous of a twenty-two-year-old intern?” The subtext was clear: You’re not a young girl anymore. Don’t act like one. And he was right. My youth belonged to him. My entire twenties, from twenty-two to twenty-eight, had been poured into him. But he had never once mentioned marriage. I opened our chat. The screen was a long, one-sided green wall of my texts. Page after page of me asking when he’d be home, what he wanted for dinner, or if he was okay. Every ten or fifteen messages from me would be met with a single, dry word from him: Fine. or Okay. For the first time in six years, I didn’t reply immediately. Instead, I opened my Delta app and booked a one-way flight back to Ohio for three days from now. Some stories don’t get a happy ending. It’s better to close the book before the pages completely rot. When the party finally wound down, everyone left in groups. I found myself standing alone on the curb in the biting autumn air. The Uber app showed a thirty-minute wait with surge pricing. A sleek, midnight-black Porsche pulled up to the curb. The passenger side window rolled down, revealing Gigi’s bright face. “Sylvie! Hop in! I told Wright he needs to drop you off since it’s freezing.” I was his actual girlfriend. Yet here I was, being offered a ride in my own boyfriend’s car as an act of charity from his intern. I forced my lips into a polite line, my voice barely carrying over the city traffic. “No, thank you. You guys go ahead—” Before I could even finish the sentence, the car’s engine roared, and the tires screeched against the asphalt as Wright hit the gas, pulling back into traffic without a second glance. That night, Wright didn’t come home. It was the first time in six years. Even though I already knew exactly where he was and what he was doing with Gigi, the realization hit me like a physical blow, leaving me gasping for air in the empty apartment. The boy who used to blush when he kissed my cheek was gone, replaced by a man who had made himself thoroughly dirty. I stared at my phone screen, looking at the photos and profiles of local guys my parents had carefully vetted back home. They were all decent men, vetted by people who actually loved me. I closed my eyes and blindly tapped on one of the names. I trusted my parents’ judgment more than my own at this point. That night, my sleep was fitful, haunted by ghosts of the past. I dreamed of our first year in the city, when Wright and I shared a cramped, drafty studio apartment that smelled like mold and radiator heat. I remembered coming home crying after my boss had publicly humiliated me. Wright had held me so tight against his chest, his voice thick with a fierce, quiet anger. “Sylvie, baby, just wait for me. I swear to god, I’m going to make sure no one ever treats you like this again.” He had kept his promise. He worked himself to the bone, ousted that manager, and climbed his way up to become the youngest Managing Director of the firm. But Wright, the irony is that now, you’re the only one hurting me. A night of dreaming left me with a migraine that felt like a hot needle driving through my temple. I barely made it to the office, punching in with less than a minute to spare. Gigi arrived even later. She was wearing a low-cut knit top, and she hadn’t bordered to hide the faint purple bruise blooming right above her collarbone. When the older women in the department started teasing her, she pouted, her voice dripping with artificial coyness. “Oh, stop it, you guys! Please don’t tease me. I barely got any sleep last night… he just wouldn’t let me rest.” I wanted no part of this. I turned on my heel, intending to take the long way around to my cubicle, but Gigi wasn’t about to let me escape. “Sylvie, help me out here! Tell them to leave me alone!” She lunged forward, grabbing my sleeve and hiding behind me. Instantly, the scent of Wright’s expensive sandalwood cologne washed over me. It was thick, clinging to her skin and clothes. Just how intensely had they held each other last night for his scent to completely coat her like this? A sudden, violent wave of nausea hit me. I shoved her off and bolted to the restroom, barely making it to a stall before dry-heaving into the toilet. When I finally stood up to wash my mouth, I saw Gigi’s reflection in the mirror. She was standing near the door, watching me with a calculating, nervous expression. I let out a cold, hollow laugh. She knew. Of course she did. “Relax,” I said, wiping my mouth with a paper towel. “I’m not pregnant with his kid.” Gigi’s innocent demeanor vanished. She dropped her arms, stepping closer to me, her eyes hardening. “Sylvie, let’s be real. Wright doesn’t love you anymore.” She looked at me, her chin raised. “What do you want to walk away? A payout? If it’s money, I can ask him to write you a check.” I wondered how deeply Wright must have spoiled her for her to speak with this level of arrogance. Before I could answer her, my manager opened the door and called both of us into the main conference room. Wright was already sitting at the head of the long glass table, his expression dark and looming. A thick folder of contract documents was slammed onto the table. “Who handled the final review on this acquisition contract?” our division head bellowed, his face red with rage. “An extra zero was added to the final payout figure. Nobody caught it, and now the firm is legally bound to pay ten times the agreed amount!” Beside me, Gigi flinched, shrinking into herself. She cast a desperate, pleading look toward Wright, who remained silent. A cold dread settled deep in my chest. And then, Wright tapped his fingers slowly against the glass table, his voice cool and decisive. “I believe Sylvie was the one who signed off on the final execution.” The room seemed to drop ten degrees. I felt myself go entirely numb, frozen in place. Even when Wright pulled me out into the empty hallway after the meeting, my mind was blank. I watched his thin lips move, his voice sounding like it was coming from underwater. “Gigi just got her promotion, Sylvie. A mistake like this on her record would ruin her career before it even starts.” He looked at me, completely indifferent to the shock on my face. “I’ll cover the financial penalty out of my own accounts. You won’t lose any money.” Before I could utter a single word, he turned back toward the conference room. He needed to comfort Gigi, who was supposedly traumatized by the meeting. Through the glass door, I heard his low, soothing voice. “It’s okay, sweetheart… I took care of it. You’re fine.” So that was his brilliant solution. To protect his shiny new toy, he threw me to the wolves. I covered my face with my hands, my quiet, bitter tears slipping through my fingers. I went back to my desk, packed my personal things, and printed out the resignation letter I’d drafted days ago. The HR manager looked at the paper, then up at me, hesitating. “Does Wright know about this?” I frowned. “Why would he need to know? This is a departmental matter.” She seemed to catch herself, shaking her head slightly, and stamped the exit paperwork. “What are your plans after this, Sylvie?” I let out a soft, genuine laugh, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. “I’m going back home to get married.” The news of my departure caused a minor stir in the department, but it was quickly overshadowed by the latest office gossip. “Wright flew out to Chicago with Gigi for her client meetings.” “Apparently, she was nervous about traveling alone, so he cleared his schedule to go with her. Isn’t that romantic?” My fingers curled slightly into my palms. I remembered a business trip to Atlanta three years ago. I had been followed back to my hotel by a strange man, and in a panic, I called Wright. His voice had been perfectly flat, irritated by the interruption. “Sylvie, my time is extremely valuable. If you’re in danger, dial 911, not my personal line.” My safety was an inconvenience. Gigi’s mild anxiety was worth a first-class ticket. I rubbed my chest, but the sharp, stabbing pain didn’t come this time. It was just a dull, empty ache. I pulled out my old phone and sent him a final text. Wright, let’s end this. We’re over. This time, he replied instantly. Stop acting up. I’ll explain everything when I get back tonight. I decided to wait. I wanted a proper, clean break. But as I sat in the drafty, echoing terminal of the airport all night, the cold wind seeping through my sweater, he never showed up. Instead, my feed updated with a post from Gigi. It was her birthday. The photo showed her wrapped in Wright’s heavy cashmere coat, standing on a rooftop overlooking the Chicago skyline, surrounded by exploding fireworks. I stared at the photo, let out a quiet laugh, and boarded my flight without looking back. … After a long, sleepless night of celebrating, Wright stirred in the hotel bed. The sheets slid down, exposing his bare shoulders and chest, marked with fresh scratches. He rubbed his temples, a dull headache forming, and reached for his phone. There was an automated notification from HR about a processed resignation. Wright clenched his jaw. He hadn’t actually expected me to quit. The sudden loss of control tasted sour in his mouth. But he wasn’t panicked. He knew me. He knew that no matter how far I walked, all he had to do was turn around and I’d be right there, waiting. He rummaged through the pile of shopping bags he’d bought for Gigi, picked out a designer scarf that didn’t fit her style, and arranged for it to be couriered to our apartment as an apology gift. He spent another three days in Chicago with Gigi, enjoying the distraction, before flying back. The moment he walked back into the office, he saw a group of marketing staff huddling around a desk, looking at a Venmo pool. He was in a remarkably good mood. “What’s everyone up to?” “Sylvie’s getting married,” one of the assistants replied. “We’re putting together a group gift registry contribution. Do you want to throw in, Wright?”
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