The first stop of our honeymoon road trip was a sold-out stadium tour. Brett had bought the tickets months ago, promising it would be unforgettable. Halfway through the set, the jumbotron began scanning the crowd, pulsing with lights and electric bass before freezing—dead center—on the two of us. On stage, beneath a blinding halo of spotlights, stood the pop star I had spent six years idolizing. She leaned into her mic, looking directly toward our section, and offered a knowing, luminous smile. “Well, hey there. It’s been a while.” A shriek tore from my throat. My heart hammered against my ribs as I waved my glowing light stick in frantic, euphoric circles. Serena chuckled softly into the mic. “Aren’t you going to introduce the lucky girl next to you?” Brett held the arena microphone that had been handed to him by a floor coordinator. His knuckles were pale, his lips pressed into a tight, bloodless line. He didn’t speak. Oblivious to the sudden chill in the air, I leaned over, grabbed the edge of the mic, and shouted at the top of my lungs, “We just got married!” The stadium erupted. Tens of thousands of fans cheered, a roar of collective joy washing over us like a tidal wave. On the massive screens, Serena’s radiant expression froze for a fraction of a second. She cleared her throat, recovering with polished grace. “Congratulations, then. As our lucky fans of the night, you get to sing a duet with me. Brett… you pick the song.” The breath caught in my throat. “Brett?” She knew his name? Brett stared up at the stage, his gaze locked onto hers. When he spoke, his voice was thick, rough with suppressed emotion. “Let’s do “Almost Lover”.” The opening chords echoed through the stadium. Brett kept his eyes fixed entirely on her as the melody swelled, his lashes glistening with unshed tears. “I never want to see you unhappy, even if your happiness means a world without me…” By the final note, Brett’s eyes were brimming with tears. Serena tilted her head, her voice purring through the stadium sound system. “Anything you want to say to your new bride, Brett?” Brett slowly turned his head to look at me. His eyes were dark, distant, carrying a heavy ache that had nothing to do with me. “Joanne,” he said, each word deliberate and hollow. “Thank you. For loving her with me.” A text pinged on my phone—the hotel coordinator sending the final floral arrangements for our post-wedding reception back home. Tears blurred the screen. With shaking thumbs, I typed a reply. “Mom. Cancel the reception.” … The concert ended, and the roaring ocean of forty thousand people slowly drained from the venue. Brett and I remained seated in the VIP floor section, surrounded by discarded confetti and empty plastic cups. The silence between us felt louder than the music had been. I tightened my grip on the plastic light stick until the plastic bit into my palm, needing to hear him say it out loud. “Brett. You and Serena. You actually know each other?” Brett paused, his body stiffening before he settled back into his folding chair. When he answered, his tone was infuriatingly casual—as though he were discussing the weather. “Yeah. She’s my ex.” My stomach plummeted. A lyric from Serena’s breakout indie track—the one that had launched her career five years ago—flashed through my mind. “So… you’re the guy?” I asked, my voice barely audible. “The high school sweetheart? The boy next door she promised forever to on a porch swing before she signed her record deal?” Brett didn’t speak. He just gave a single, quiet nod. Every drop of warmth drained from my limbs. He turned to study me. “Does it bother you?” I stared straight ahead at the dark, hollow stage. Inside my head, the question echoed like a cruel joke. “Does it bother me?” My brand-new husband was the legendary, tragic first love of the pop star whose posters hung in our study, whose vinyl records I had spent six years collecting. I didn’t dignify his question with an answer. Instead, I pressed on, desperate for the full truth. “Why did you break up?” A fleeting shadow of grief crossed his features. “When she got signed to the major label, the contract had an ironclad image clause. No public relationships. No baggage. For her career, we had no choice.” A hot tear escaped, tracking down my cheek. I looked at the man I had loved for seven years, suddenly feeling as though I were sitting next to a total stranger. “You’re terrifying, Brett,” I whispered. “What is that supposed to mean?” “For six years, you’ve bought me every single one of her vinyl variants. You made me watch her backstage documentaries. You subtly, patiently molded me into her biggest fan…” My voice broke into a bitter sob. “You didn’t do that for me. You turned me into a fan so you’d have a permanent excuse to follow her around, go to her shows, and openly mourn her without looking suspicious. Isn’t that right?!” Brett’s face contorted, raw fury flashing across his eyes—the violent defensiveness of a man caught with his hands in the dark. He shot up from his seat, sneering down at me. “You are completely out of your mind.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed toward the tunnel exit. “Brett!” At that exact second, the arena’s house lights slammed off with a heavy mechanical “thud”. Pitch-black darkness swallowed the cavernous room. I have suffered from crippling nyctophobia since childhood. My chest seized; a cold sweat broke out across my skin as panic gripped my throat. “Brett! Wait for me! Please, you know I can’t do the dark!” My voice bounced off the empty concrete walls, swallowed by the void. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. Trembling violently, I fumbled for my phone, flicked on the flashlight, and stumbled through the rows of folding chairs, tripping over cables until I finally shoved my way out into the backstage parking lot. The alleyway was swarming with hundreds of screaming fans, barricades creaking under the pressure. Near the matte-black Mercedes Sprinter van, Serena was signing posters under the glow of security lamps. Suddenly, she paused her Sharpie, stood on her tiptoes, and waved past the wall of bodies with a blinding, dazzling smile. “Brett! Over here! Excuse me, guys, make a little room.” I watched from the periphery as Brett emerged from the crowd. After a split second of hesitation, a soft, indulgent smile broke across his lips as he walked straight toward her. Serena wrapped her arm through his with effortless intimacy, leaning into him as she announced to the squealing crowd, “Everyone, this is my childhood best friend. He’s actually one of the top orthopedic surgeons in the city now.” I stood on the outer fringes of the mob, frozen. Brett’s gaze was glued to her face, hungry and devoted, without a single glance spared for the surrounding lot—or for me. Her tour manager shouted over the noise, “All right, that’s wrap! Serena has a private schedule to keep!” The crowd surged forward in a frenzy of desperation. A wall of bodies slammed into me from the side. My footing gave out, and I crashed violently onto the asphalt. “Ah!” A chorus of screaming fans trampled forward. Heavy boots came down on my right hand; I heard a sickening, distinct “snap” in my fingers, followed by a searing white flash of agony. Someone else stepped squarely on my lower back to climb a barrier. The pain nearly made me black out. “Brett! Help me! Brett!” Across the sea of heads, Brett flinched, his head turning as if catching the faint sound of my voice. “Joanne?” Serena instantly leaned in, pressing her entire body against his side, whispering something urgently into his ear with a pout. Brett stopped. He didn’t come for me. Instead, he signaled toward two hired security guards, pointed vaguely in my general direction, and then wrapped his arm protectively around Serena’s waist, escorting her into the sleek black Sprinter. The heavy door slid shut. The van sped away into the night. I lay curled on the icy pavement, gasping for air through cold sweats. My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. Brett: “Serena had a small emergency and needs my help sorting it out. Take an Uber back to the hotel.” The two private guards finally wandered over, grabbing me roughly by the arms like a sack of laundry and yanking me to my feet. Once they saw I was upright, they turned and jogged off after the convoy without a word. The crowd dispersed, leaving behind flattened paper cups and crushed light sticks. The midnight wind sliced through my clothes. Clutching my throbbing, crooked fingers and limping on a wrenched back, I managed to hail a cab to the nearest emergency room. Three hours later, the X-rays confirmed the worst: fractured index and middle fingers on my right hand, a severe lumbar sprain, and extensive soft-tissue contusions across my torso. Tears spilled over my cheeks as the ER nurse wrapped my hand in a thick fiberglass splint. The attending physician jotted down notes. “How on earth did this happen?” “Crowd crush… after a concert,” I rasped, exhausted. The doctor glanced around the curtained bay. “Do you have any family here with you?” Looking down at the bulky cast on my hand, my throat tightened. “No. Just me.” The nurse gave me a look of quiet pity and gently helped me pull my cardigan back over my shoulders. On the very first night of my honeymoon, in a strange city, I checked in alone, paid my medical bills alone, and sat under the harsh fluorescent lights of an IV bay alone. It was nearly 3:30 AM when I let myself back into the hotel suite. I collapsed onto the king-sized bed, curling into a tight, guarded ball beneath the duvet. Unbidden, seven years of memories flooded my mind. I remembered Brett standing in the pouring rain for forty minutes just to pick up my favorite lavender macarons. I remembered him driving across town at two in the morning because I had a migraine. When I had been hospitalized with severe bronchitis, he hadn’t left my bedside for forty-eight straight hours. On the night he proposed, he had dropped to one knee, looking up at me with eyes so full of tender conviction: “Joanne, in my life, you will always come first.” It took tonight for me to finally understand. His “first place” had been reserved long before I ever entered the picture. Sometime later, the suite’s electronic lock chimed. I kept my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. The mattress dipped. Brett slid in behind me, wrapping an arm around my waist to pull me against his chest. “Ah!” A sharp gasp tore from my throat as his arm pressed into my bruised ribs. I shoved him away with my good left arm. Brett blinked in the faint amber glow of the bedside lamp, taken aback. “What’s wrong with you?” “What’s wrong with me?” The dam holding back seven hours of humiliation and agony shattered. I sat bolt upright, lifting my cast-bound right arm into the light, my eyes burning with raw fury. “You’re asking me what’s wrong?” I shook. “Brett, were you completely blind? I was being trampled by a mob right outside the venue!” “I was screaming for you! Where the hell were you when my bones were snapping under people’s shoes?” Confronted with my trembling rage, Brett simply frowned, annoyance tightening his jaw. “Joanne, don’t make a scene out of nothing. Didn’t I tell security to pull you up?” “Besides, you’re a registered nurse. You know how to handle minor injuries at a clinic.” “Serena is different.” His voice softened involuntarily, laced with protective tenderness. “She pushed herself too hard on stage tonight. She twisted her ankle during the encore and was literally sobbing backstage from the pain. She’s a major public figure—she can’t just walk into a public hospital without causing a media circus. I happen to be an orthopedic surgeon…” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. I stared at him, my stomach turning with sheer disbelief. Seeing how pale and hollow I looked, Brett seemed to realize he had pushed too far. His posture softened, and he leaned in again, trying to rest a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Okay, look… I’m sorry, alright? I messed up.” “Don’t be mad, babe. It was an unexpected situation. I shouldn’t have left you, okay?” “I swear, for the rest of the trip, I am entirely yours. Just the two of us. Deal?” He used the same soothing, practiced tone he always used whenever he wanted to smooth things over. I closed my eyes, forcing down the violent urge to scream. We had been together for seven years, and we rarely fought. Part of my brain—the desperate, grieving part—wondered if he was genuinely just this emotionally oblivious. I drew a long, slow breath and pulled back from his reach. “Go take a shower,” I said quietly, staring at the wall. “You smell like another woman’s perfume. It’s disgusting.” Brett’s jaw tightened, but he swallowed his retort, grabbed a fresh change of clothes, and disappeared into the bathroom. Listening to the running water, I stared up at the crown molding on the ceiling until dawn broke, not sleeping for a single second. The next leg of our trip was a flight out west to a luxury mountain resort in Wyoming. At the airport terminal, I turned toward the standard security line and the economy check-in desks. Brett caught my elbow, steering me toward the dedicated VIP Priority lane instead. I glanced at him, perplexed. “When did you upgrade our tickets?” Brett was notoriously frugal with travel; he would never splurge on domestic first class on a whim. “Brett! Over here!” I turned toward the sound. Serena’s personal assistant, Lexi, was waving enthusiastically from the entrance of the private lounge. Brett looked at me with an effortless, breezy smile. “Oh, forgot to mention. Serena happens to have a four-day break before her next tour leg. She heard we were heading to the mountains and thought it sounded fun, so she decided to tag along.” “With Serena traveling, economy obviously wasn’t an option, so I bumped us up.” My brain went completely numb. Our honeymoon. He had invited his ex-girlfriend to crash our honeymoon. Seeing my blank, paralyzed expression, Brett chuckled and affectionately ruffled my hair. “What, starstruck?” “I figured you’d lose your mind. Getting to vacation with your idol? That’s once-in-a-lifetime fan access.” “I didn’t tell you last night because I knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep from pure excitement.” He guided me into the lounge. Inside, Serena lowered her oversized designer sunglasses and stood up. Without missing a beat, right in front of my face, she slipped her slender arm through Brett’s, leaning her head naturally against his shoulder. “Morning, Joanne,” she said, her voice dripping with sweet, innocent charm. She reached into her Birkin, pulled out a glossy photo print, and held it out to me. “Here. Brett practically begged me for a signed print for you last night.” Serena rolled her eyes playfully at Brett. “Honestly, Brett, the moment you get a wife, you forget your little sister. I only asked you to rub some arnica oil on my ankle, and you charged me a signed photo. Cheapskate.” I looked down at the photo in her manicured hand. My lungs emptied of air. It wasn’t a promotional headshot. It was a selfie taken in a dim hotel suite late last night. In the frame, Brett was lounging on a plush sofa. Serena, wearing nothing but a sheer silk chemise, was straddling his lap, her crimson lips pressed firmly against his cheek. And Brett’s face was turned toward the camera, his eyes heavy with undisguised adoration. In the bottom right corner, Serena’s signature was scrawled in gold metallic ink. Brett caught sight of the photo and his face paled slightly. His hand twitched forward, instinctively reaching to snatch it back. Using my uninjured left hand, I calmly took it from Serena’s fingers before he could touch it. I looked up, meeting Serena’s gaze, and offered a bright, perfectly polished smile. “Thank you so much. How thoughtful.” Serena’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, clearly frustrated that she hadn’t provoked a public breakdown. She pulled Brett toward the seating area, casually asking about my history as her fan. Brett began recounting every embarrassing thing I had ever done—how I had camped out in the rain for hours to buy a limited-edition vinyl box set, how I had begged mutual contacts for backstage passes. He told it like a stand-up routine, laughing at my expense. He conveniently omitted that “he” had been the one constantly talking about those items, sighing about how much he wished he had them, until I went out and got them to make him happy. Serena covered her mouth, giggling, then cast a pointed glance at me. “Brett… you don’t think Joanne married you just to get close to me, do you?” She laughed, half-joking, half-poisonous. “You should be careful. You never know with these obsessive superfans.” Brett turned his head, his eyes narrowing as he looked at me. “Is that true, Joanne?” His gaze was unsettlingly cold. Before I could even speak, the terminal chime rang out overhead. “First-class passengers for Flight 1408, now boarding at Gate 12…” Lexi suddenly stepped up and grabbed my coat sleeve. “Hey, where are you going?” Lexi looked at me with poorly concealed contempt. “Come with me. We’re in Main Cabin.” I stopped dead in my tracks. “Excuse me?” Lexi rolled her eyes. “Serena and Brett have the first-class suite. We’re just the assistant and the plus-one. Obviously we’re in row 28.” I turned, looking at Brett with absolute, frozen clarity. “Brett. This is what you meant by ‘we upgraded’?” A flash of awkwardness crossed his face. Serena immediately tightened her grip on his arm, giving a remorseful little pout. “Joanne, please don’t be upset. Last-minute first-class fares to Jackson Hole are ridiculously expensive, and Brett is on a surgeon’s base salary right now.” She wore the mask of a gracious saint. “You wouldn’t hold it against him just because you have to sit in coach, would you?” Brett sighed, stepping forward to pat my good shoulder. “Joanne, stop being unreasonable.” “You were planning to fly economy anyway. Don’t be vain.” “It’s only a three-hour flight. Suck it up, and we’ll meet at baggage claim. Be a good girl.” Right then, the last dying ember of my love for him went out. When the pain reaches its absolute peak, it doesn’t manifest as tears. It turns into a crystalline, icy stillness. I nodded gently. “You’re right.” Brett looked visibly relieved. He smiled back at Serena. “Let’s go, Rena.” I stood still, watching their backs as they walked side by side down the carpeted jet bridge. I turned to Lexi. “I left my prescription painkillers in the restroom by the food court. Head down to the gate; I’ll be right behind you.” Lexi scoffed, muttering under her breath, “Ugh, high maintenance. Hurry up, the plane won’t wait for you!” I waited until she vanished through the gate. Then, I turned on my heel and walked up to the customer service counter. “Hi. I need to cancel my boarding pass and recall my checked luggage, please.” The agent tapped her screen. “Of course. Where would you like to rebook?” I looked at the departures board. “One-way to Lake Tahoe. The earliest flight you have. First class.” Standing before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, I watched the silver aircraft carrying Brett and Serena push back from the tarmac and roar into the gray sky. I pulled out my phone, opened the artist’s verified community page on Instagram and X, and uploaded a crisp, high-resolution photo of the Polaroid—the one where she was straddling my husband in silk lingerie. Caption: “A huge thank-you to my idol @SerenaSterling and my husband @DrBrettLawson for the lovely wedding gift! Wishing you both the best.” … Two hours later, Flight 1408 touched down in Wyoming. Brett checked his Rolex as they stepped off the jet bridge. “Where is she? Does it really take this long to deplane from row 28?” He stood near baggage claim for twenty minutes, his eyes scanning the crowd, but there was no sign of Joanne. Suddenly, Lexi came sprinting through the terminal doors, her face deathly pale, drenched in cold sweat. “Serena! Brett! We have a catastrophic problem!” Her hands were shaking so hard she dropped her phone onto the linoleum. Brett frowned. “Stop yelling. Where is Joanne?” “Joanne… Joanne never got on the plane!” “What? What do you mean she didn’t board?” He immediately pulled out his phone and dialed her number. “We’re sorry, but the number you are trying to reach has been turned off…” “Forget Joanne!” Lexi sounded on the verge of tears. She shoved her iPad directly into Brett and Serena’s faces. “Look at Twitter! Look at TMZ! You’re both trending worldwide!”
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