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Seven years of emotional entanglement, and I was finally, utterly exhausted. It wasn’t a grand explosion that finished us. It was a notification on our seventh anniversary. A trending topic on social media that cut through the noise of my day: “New Celestial Discovery Officially Named: Parker Ward.” I clicked the link. The post was from my wife, Talia. The caption read: “Naming a star after you so that even in the vastness of the universe, you will never be lonely.” Benedicteath it, a comment from her junior colleague at the lab: “I’m so happy you decided to share this private romance with the world, Talia! You’ve made me the happiest man alive.” In the past, I would have spiraled. I would have called her a hundred times, demanding an explanation, begging for a reason why her “exclusive” love was being gifted to another man. But this time, I didn’t reach for the phone. I didn’t feel the familiar sting of tears. I just felt… done. 1. When Talia finally came home, I was out on the balcony, a cigarette burning between my fingers. She hated the smell. She used to wrinkle her nose and lecture me on lung capacity and the sanctity of our shared air. Because of her, I’d forced myself to quit years ago, enduring the shakes and the irritability of withdrawal just to keep her smiling. She saw me smoking now and paused, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. But she didn’t scold me. She reached into her bag and handed me a small, velvet-lined box. Her voice was flat, professional. “Happy seventh anniversary.” “Sorry I’m late. Things got crazy at the lab. I forgot to call.” “It’s fine,” I said, taking one last drag before stubbing the cherry out. I opened the box. It was a necklace—a delicate silver chain with a star-shaped pendant. I snapped the box shut. “I love it. Thank you.” Talia froze. Whatever excuse she had rehearsed died in her throat. She looked at me, waiting for the interrogation, the accusations, the inevitable fight. She expected me to be hysterical after seeing the news. I had expected that of myself, too. I had made reservations at the restaurant where I proposed. I’d bought fireworks. I’d taken the afternoon off to wait for her outside the Space Research Institute, wanting to surprise her. I didn’t find her. I found a headline instead. “Minor Planet 960306 officially designated the ‘Parker Ward Star.’ Lead Astronomer Talia Vaughn credits the discovery to a ‘significant personal inspiration.’” Talia’s post was the top result. “Named for you. Wear the sky like a crown. You are never alone.” The photo attached was of her and Parker at a dimly lit French bistro, their faces pressed close together. Parker was holding the framed celestial certificate, beaming. His comment—“Sharing our private romance with everyone, thank you, Talia!”—had ten thousand likes. I had tossed my phone onto the passenger seat and driven to our reserved dinner alone. I sat under the display of fireworks I’d paid for, eating two steaks by myself, a silent wake for a seven-year marriage that was already dead. As I reached for a second cigarette, Talia suddenly snatched the lighter from my hand. Her brow furrowed. “I thought you quit, Benedict.” “I felt like having one,” I said, putting the pack away and turning to head to the bedroom. She grabbed my wrist, her eyes searching mine, filled with a sudden, localized panic. “It’s our anniversary.” I looked at her, truly looked at her. “And?” Her grip tightened. “You didn’t get me anything? Are you really going to bed this early?” She leaned in to kiss me. Talia had always possessed this magnetic contradiction—cool, intellectual distance paired with a sudden, feline sensuality. Usually, when she initiated, I was a goner. But as she got closer, I smelled it. Not her perfume. Not the sterile scent of the lab. It was the smell of menthol cigarettes. Parker’s brand. I stepped back, tilting my head away from her lips. “You had a long day at work,” I said quietly. “Get some rest.” 2. I ignored her stunned expression and went to the bathroom to wash up. When I came out, my phone buzzed with a message. It was from Luke, my business partner and oldest friend. “Are you serious about the Paris move? Can you really leave Talia? If you fly back after two days because you miss her, I’m going to kill you myself.” I typed back immediately: “I’m serious. If I turn back this time, you have my permission to take me out.” Three years ago, our firm needed someone to spearhead the European branch. I’d discussed it with Talia, and we’d agreed it was a great move. But three days after I landed, she called me, crying, saying she had a stomach flu and couldn’t cope alone. I caught the next flight back. I stayed behind to keep her world steady, while Luke handled the travel. We had been together for twelve years—five dating, seven married. Since high school, I knew she was the kind of person who got lost in her work. I didn’t trust the world to look after her. Our friends often asked why a guy like me—someone who valued a warm home and a shared life—was with a woman who didn’t even know how to boil an egg. They said she was a great Muse, but a terrible wife. I always told them: “She saved me. Mentally and physically.” Because of my family history, I’d struggled with deep clinical depression in my twenties. At my lowest point, when I was ready to let the tide take me, she was the one who pulled me back. She was a slip of a girl, barely a hundred pounds, dragging my dead weight away from the edge. She went to every therapy session with me. Rain or shine. When I finally got better, I asked her, “Weren’t you scared? You were so young.” She’d just shrugged, looking out at the horizon. “I couldn’t stand the thought of someone with a smile like yours leaving the world. We have a long time left, Benedict. I want to see the world with you.” The Talia from back then probably never imagined she’d become the reason my depression flared up again. Life isn’t a multiple-choice test. And I was no longer the answer she was looking for. Luke, who had watched our entire history, sensed something was different. “The world is huge, Benedict. There’s better food, more interesting people, and a future that doesn’t involve you being a second-place trophy. July 1st is tomorrow. New month, new start.” A moment later, another text: “The Paris office opens in a week. Forget the girl, brother. Let’s get rich.” 3. The next morning, I woke up early for our monthly board meeting. To my surprise, Talia was in the kitchen, hovering over the stove. I blinked, momentarily disoriented. I only knew she could cook because of Parker’s Instagram. The kid loved documenting his life—especially the parts that belonged to me. He’d post photos of her making him spicy ramen during late-night shifts. He’d post about her picking him up in the rain. He’d post the carefully chosen gifts she bought for his birthday. Just like the star. He’d pouted that he wanted one, and she’d simply given it to him. I had spent the previous night in a fit of digital masochism, scrolling through Parker’s feed, watching the highlights of their “mentorship” turn into a full-blown romance. “Benedict, come eat,” Talia said, pulling me toward the table. “I made that oatmeal you like.” I picked up the spoon, took one bite, and set it down. She looked at me, confused. “What’s wrong?” I looked at the bowl. “I only eat it with brown sugar and honey, Talia. I like it sweet.” I’d told her once that sweet things helped with the dopamine. I had a sweet tooth that bordered on an addiction. She froze for a few seconds, her face flushing. “I… there are eggs in the kitchen. I’ll make those instead.” I shook my head. “Don’t bother. I’m in a hurry.” I’d seen Parker’s post from yesterday: “Yay! Talia promised to make me breakfast tomorrow. Savory oatmeal with poached eggs and sea salt. My favorite!” As I headed for the door, she grabbed my arm, her frustration finally boiling over. “Are you still sulking? Because of yesterday? I told you, it was a work emergency. I apologized.” “The research project is in its final phase, Benedict. As the lead, I can’t just put my personal life first. You’ve always supported my career. Why are you acting out now?” She was right. That was the dynamic we’d established. I loved her, so I was the shock absorber. I tolerated the forgotten birthdays, the missed anniversaries, the days where she wouldn’t even text to say she was alive. I told myself it was for her dream. Until the day she finished a major study and I went to pick her up. She was sitting in her car, laughing at her phone. The woman who always said texting was a “tedious waste of time” was typing a mile a minute, her face lit up with a genuine, effortless joy. That was the first time I heard his name. Parker. The “clumsy but brilliant” intern. That was the day I realized she didn’t hate texting. She just hated texting me. I pulled my arm out of her grasp. My gaze was level, empty. “I’m tired, Talia. These years… I’m just tired.” “We should—” I didn’t get to finish. Her phone rang. The ringtone was a theme from an anime I knew she didn’t watch. She didn’t even check the ID before answering. Her voice softened instantly. “Hey. What’s up?” She probably didn’t realize how her expression melted into something tender. Parker’s voice was loud enough for me to hear through the receiver. He sounded like a whining child. “Talia, I’m starving! When are you coming back to the lab? If I faint from hunger, it’s on your conscience.” Talia laughed, a sound I hadn’t heard in months. “You ate a mountain of wings last night. How are you hungry already?” “Fine, I’m coming now.” I felt a cold smirk tug at my lips. The boy on the phone seemed to sense something. “Oh, hey, tell your husband I said hi. Since I stole his star and kept you late for our celebratory dinner on your anniversary, I should probably buy him a drink or something. To say thanks.” 4. Talia’s eyes flickered with a brief, sharp guilt. She took a step back, clutching the phone. I didn’t say a word. I turned to leave. She hung up abruptly and chased after me, insisting on driving me to work. “The star… Parker was a huge part of that research,” she said as we got into the car. “I couldn’t just take all the credit. It was his birthday, and he mentioned wanting a star, so I figured it was a good way to reward his hard work.” “The dinner was a group thing, Benedict. It wasn’t just us. Don’t overthink it, okay?” I looked out the window. She had been working on this planetary research for three years. Parker had been there for three months. The lie was so insulting it was almost funny. She didn’t realize that whenever she lied, she fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. It was a tell I’d known since we were twenty. She dropped me off at the office, but before I could even get through the lobby, her phone rang again. Parker. A “crisis” at the lab. She looked at me with an apologetic shrug and sped off. It didn’t even hurt anymore. The rain started that afternoon. A typical Seattle deluge. I got soaked running to a meeting and by evening, I was shivering with a high fever. I was lying on the couch, drifting in and out of a sweat-soaked sleep, wanting to ask Talia for some Tylenol. I heard her in the bedroom, but she wasn’t getting medicine. She was changing her clothes. “Parker’s water heater burst,” she said, not looking at me. “He doesn’t know how to fix it. I’m going over to help.” I stared at her. I didn’t know whether to ask why an astrophysics genius couldn’t call a plumber, or why my wife was the designated handyman for her intern. She didn’t give me the chance. She was out the door in minutes. She didn’t notice the thermostat was set to sixty-five, or that her husband was shaking under three blankets. She wasn’t like the girl in college who used to scold me for running into air-conditioned libraries after soccer practice. “Do you think you’re invincible?” she’d barked, wiping the sweat from my forehead with a tissue. “You’re going to get a fever, and then I’m the one who has to nurse you back to health!” At the office the next day, Luke dropped a thick file on my desk. “Start memorizing. If you mess up the Paris transition, I’m kicking you out of the partnership.” I dove into the work like it was a lifeline. I stayed until the building was nearly empty. Before I left, I opened my email and saw the draft from my lawyer. The divorce papers were ready. I printed them out. Outside, the storm had turned into a nightmare. I drove to Talia’s institute, the papers sitting on the passenger seat. When I pulled into the underground garage, my phone buzzed. A notification from social media. Parker had posted a video. It was from a Comic-Con event a few weeks back. In the video, Parker had won a gaming tournament. In his excitement, he grabbed Talia in the middle of the crowded hall and kissed her. Deeply. The caption: “From the moment I met you, I wondered if I could ever have you openly. Now, I finally do.” I turned off the screen and leaned my head back, laughing at the ceiling of my car. Twelve years. We had spent our entire adult lives together. And yet, the woman in that video was a complete stranger. I started to put the car in reverse when I heard a muffled shout from a few rows over. 5. “Talia, please! Don’t do this to me…” “I love you… is that a crime? I’ve loved you since you gave that guest lecture at my school…” I followed the sound. Parker, tall and lanky, had Talia pinned against the side of her car. His eyes were bloodshot, his face a mask of desperate youth. In a fit of dramatic despair, he leaned down and crushed his lips against hers. I saw her hands, which had been hanging at her sides, slowly rise. They slid up his chest and locked behind his neck. They stood there in the shadows of the garage, lost in a long, rain-slicked kiss. CRACK— A sudden bolt of lightning illuminated the garage, followed by a roar of thunder that shook the concrete. “Who’s there!” Parker snapped. They both turned and saw me standing ten feet away. Their heavy breathing was the only sound in the silence that followed. Talia looked like she’d seen a ghost. Her face went bone-white. “Benedict… Benedict, why are you here?” I walked toward them, one slow step at a time. “Sir, it’s not what it looks like,” Parker stammered, stepping in front of her. “It’s not her fault. I’m the one who loves her, it’s all—” I didn’t let him finish. I put every ounce of my twelve years of suppressed resentment into a single punch that sent him sprawling across the wet pavement. Then, I pulled my wedding ring off and threw it at Talia. It hit her shoulder and clattered to the ground. The shock seemed to snap her out of it. She shoved Parker away, her voice rising to a frantic pitch. “Benedict, let me explain! It’s not—” I cut her off, thrusting the divorce papers into her hands. “Talia. We’re done.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “424272”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was April Fool’s Day, and a stupid game with friends turned south. The penalty for losing was a “dare”: I had to text the person at the top of my contact list and ask to borrow money. I didn’t think twice. I pulled up my messages with Nicole and typed: “Hey, can you Venmo me fifty bucks for dinner?” Nicole had always been generous, the kind of woman who didn’t blink at a three-figure bar tab. I expected a quick transfer and a playful jab. Instead, she took a screenshot of my request and posted it to her Instagram Stories. The caption read: “And they say chivalry isn’t dead. Imagine being a man who has to beg his girl for fifty bucks. #DeadbeatStatus #GetAJob.” My blood ran cold. I called her immediately, my voice trembling with indignation. She picked up on the third ring, her tone maddeningly dismissive. “Relax,” she said, her voice airy. “Parker had my phone. He’s just a kid, Jackson. He was being playful for April Fool’s. He didn’t mean anything by it. I’ll make him apologize, okay? I’ve got a meeting. Bye.” The line went dead. Seconds later, I saw Parker—her twenty-something “executive assistant”—update his own Story. It was a selfie of him grinning, Nicole’s designer bag visible in the background. The text overlay said: “Accidentally cyber-bullied the boss’s husband. Oops! Good thing the boss loves me too much to stay mad. I better watch out or she might have to ‘punish’ me again. Sorry, Mr. Boss Man! ;)” It wasn’t an apology; it was a territorial marking. It was a slap in the face. I didn’t scream. I didn’t type out a furious reply. I simply tapped the little heart icon on his post, a silent acknowledgment of the war he’d declared. Then, I whispered to the empty room, to the woman who was currently cooing at a boy on the other end of a silent line: “The engagement is off. You can have him.” 1. “What did you just say?” Nicole’s voice dropped an octave, the playful chatter of the boy in the background suddenly cut short. I opened my mouth to repeat it, but Parker’s voice chirped in before I could. “Oh my god, Nicole, it’s April Fool’s! He’s totally messing with you. Everyone at the firm knows his family’s real estate empire went bust. He’s not going anywhere—where would he go? He knows a golden goose when he sees one.” I heard the audible sigh of relief through the speaker. Nicole’s tension evaporated. “Since when did you start making jokes about breaking up?” she asked, her tone returning to that patronizing lilt. “Stop being dramatic. I’m busy. Go out with your friends, have a good time. Put it on my card.” She hung up. In the past, my friends would have cheered, calling her a “boss babe” who spoiled me. But today, they sat in uncomfortable silence, staring at their drinks. They remembered how, when my father’s business first collapsed, Nicole was the one who threatened to ruin anyone who called me a “gold digger.” She used to say she hated the way people looked at our bank accounts instead of our hearts. She told me she wanted me to feel safe with her, unburdened by the shadow of my family’s debt. And now, she wasn’t just letting someone else say those things—she was handing him the keys to her digital life. She had given him the intimacy that used to be mine alone. Looking back, I realized the rot had been setting in for a while. But Nicole and I… we had history. When we were skiing in the Swiss Alps and that shelf of snow gave way, she hadn’t let go of my hand. She had risked her life to pull me into that crevice, saving us both from the avalanche. I told her then that she had a “get out of jail free” card for life. No matter what happened, I owed her a chance. I decided to go home. I wanted to talk, to find the woman I’d almost died with. But when I walked into our penthouse, my heart hit the floor. Parker was sitting on our Italian leather sofa, wearing a silk robe and one of my custom-formulated charcoal face masks. The mask was part of a private clinical set Nicole had commissioned specifically for my skin sensitivity. It was personal. It was ours. Nicole looked up from her laptop, seeing my frown. “He’s staying the night,” she said simply. “He lost a bet with his friends, and the dare was to find someone to take him in for the night. I figured, why not? We have the space.” My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. Years ago, my best friend from college got kicked out of his apartment after a messy breakup. I’d asked if he could crash in the guest room for a few days. Nicole had thrown a fit, claiming she “hated having strangers in her sanctuary.” She told me this house was a collection of our exclusive memories, and she didn’t want anyone else’s energy staining it. I had never invited anyone over since. I took a deep breath. “I don’t want him here, Nicole. Tell him to leave, or I will.” 2. Nicole blinked, startled by the steel in my voice. She reached out to grab my hand, but Parker beat her to the punch. “Hey, man, look,” Parker said, his eyes welling up with practiced vulnerability. “You’ve lost everything. You’re more alone than I am. Don’t get upset because of me. If I’m the problem, I’ll go. I’ll just find a bench somewhere.” He looked at Nicole, a single tear escaping. “I’m so sorry, Nicole. I overstepped. I’ll leave right now.” Nicole’s hand snapped to his wrist, holding him in place. “You’re not going anywhere,” she snapped. Then she turned to me, her eyes flashing with disappointment. “This is my house, Jackson. I pay the mortgage. If I say he stays, he stays.” “Nicole—” “I know you’re still sensitive about the Instagram thing,” she interrupted. “But your jealousy is showing, and it’s pathetic. We are colleagues. You don’t need to try and ‘alpha’ him to prove your worth to me. If you can’t handle being a grown-up, go for a walk. I’m not stopping you.” I looked at her, truly seeing her for the first time in months. Back in college, Nicole was a human lie detector. She could spot a “pick-me” guy from a mile away and would shut them down with brutal efficiency if they ever tried to undermine me. Now, her own assistant was mocking me to my face, and she was calling it “competition.” She was gaslighting me in the home she once promised would be my refuge. “We’re done,” I said, the words feeling like shards of glass in my throat. “And you’re right. I should leave.” I packed a single suitcase, ignoring the burn of tears in my eyes. As I reached the front door, I heard their voices drifting from the living room. “Nicole, are you sure? Did you really just kick him out for me?” There was a two-second pause. “He just needs to clear his head,” Nicole said, her voice sounding bored. “He’ll realize soon enough that he has no other options. Without me, he’s nothing. A little reality check will do his ego some good.” My heart gave one final, agonizing throb. She didn’t know. My father had called me last week. The offshore venture we thought was dead had been acquired by a tech giant. Our family was back in the top tier of the Fortune 500. I had planned to surprise her at the engagement party—to silence the critics who called her a “sugar mama.” But the first person to look down on me was her. I booked a flight to London for three days from now. If she wanted to be rid of the “deadbeat,” I would oblige her. I posted a short status: The engagement is officially canceled. My phone blew up. Most people thought it was an April Fool’s prank. I didn’t reply to any of them. The next morning, a text from Nicole popped up: [Going through with the act, are we? Fine. Bring the ring to the office. Give it back.] I didn’t hesitate. I caught a cab to her headquarters. When I walked in, the receptionist—a woman who used to bring me coffee and call me “Mr. Todd”—looked right through me. “You’ll need to make an appointment, sir. Please wait in the lobby.” The first move of her “reality check.” She wanted me to feel the loss of my status. I considered leaving the ring at the desk, but I couldn’t. The diamond was a vintage heirloom from her mother. Her mother had loved me, and even if Nicole had forgotten who I was, I owed that memory a dignified end. I waited for an hour. When I finally was called in, I opened the door and was immediately hit by a bucket of ice-cold water. I stood there, drenched, shivering, as Parker burst into laughter, holding an empty janitorial pail. “Sorry, man!” Parker giggled. “Where I’m from, we have a tradition. If you say something ‘unlucky’ on April Fool’s, you have to get doused to wash away the bad juju so the universe doesn’t take you seriously.” I looked at Nicole. She was sitting behind her mahogany desk, watching me with a smirk that bordered on affection. No anger. No reprimand. “There,” she said. “You’ve had your little tantrum, and Parker got his revenge for you being mean to him last night. Are we done? You’re not seriously giving the ring back, Jackson. I don’t have time to shop for a new fiancé.” She thought a few pretty words and a “prank” would reset the clock. But looking at her now, I felt a deep, visceral surge of disgust. I took the ring box and threw it. It hit her square in the chest before bouncing onto the desk. “I’m not the one throwing things away, Nicole. I’m the one moving on.” 3. Nicole stiffened, her smirk vanishing. “Jackson, are you serious?” I took a shaky breath, the cold water seeping into my skin, but the fire in my chest was hotter. “Yes. I’ve never been more serious in my life.” Her eyes reddened instantly. “Fine! Go! Don’t you dare come crawling back when you realize the world doesn’t give a damn about a man with an empty bank account!” “I won’t,” I said. “I promise you that.” I walked out of that office like a drowned rat, feeling the weight of a dozen mocking stares from the staff. By noon, Nicole had updated her relationship status. She didn’t just announce the breakup; she announced a new engagement. To Parker. My feed was flooded with photos of them. Nicole taking him to a tailor for a custom tux. Nicole picking out a new ring. She was giving him the “royal treatment,” even skipping a global board meeting to be with him. The year before, I’d asked her to come with me to my final suit fitting. She’d stood me up, claiming a “client emergency.” I found out later through the office grapevine the client was just Parker wanting to go to a specific steakhouse. I’d told myself it was just business. I had been so blind. I was about to turn off my phone when a message came from an unknown number. [Hey big brother, I accidentally broke this old watch. Nicole said it was just some junk you left behind and told me to throw it out. Thought you might want to dig it out of the trash.] Attached was a photo. My heart stopped. It was the vintage pocket watch my grandparents had given Nicole before they passed. It was their most prized possession, a symbol of their blessing for our marriage. I drove to the bridal boutique like a madman. When I burst in, I found Nicole surrounded by her friends. They were drinking champagne, looking at me with predatory amusement. “I told you he’d show up,” one of them laughed. “He doesn’t care about a watch. He just can’t stand being replaced.” I ignored them, my eyes locked on Nicole. “Where is the watch? Give it back to me.” She narrowed her eyes. “Is that really what you want to talk about right now?” I didn’t answer. I stepped toward her, reaching for the pocket of her blazer where I saw a metallic glint. Before my hand even touched her lapel—SLAP. My head snapped to the side. My cheek stung with a fierce, throbbing heat. Parker was standing there, rubbing his hand, his eyes wide and watery. “Nicole is my fiancée now. You can’t just put your hands on her, man. It’s disrespectful.” I looked at Nicole, waiting for the old her to emerge, for her to scream at him for touching me. Instead, she slid an arm around Parker’s waist and pulled him close. “He’s right,” she said coldly. “I am his now. Know your place, Jackson.” The room erupted in sharp, jagged laughter. “The little drama queen has no one left!” someone jeered. I swallowed the bile in my throat. “Fine. I’ll keep my distance. Just give me the watch. It belonged to my grandparents. It’s for the woman I’m going to marry, and that isn’t you.” Parker smirked. “Too late. It’s broken, so I tossed it in the dumpster out back.” Nicole frowned slightly, but she didn’t contradict him. I spent the next two hours in the blistering sun, digging through a commercial dumpster. The Nicole I knew once lost her own necklace in a park and cried for two days until I found it in the rain. This Nicole stood in the air-conditioned boutique, watching me through the glass with clinical indifference. When I finally gave up, covered in filth and heartbreak, Parker walked out of the store. He held the watch between two fingers, crinkling his nose in mock disgust, and dropped it into a pile of literal garbage at my feet. “Oh, oops! Found it. Sorry you spent two hours digging for nothing. My bad!” I snapped. I lunged forward and slapped him—hard. “You little piece of—” I didn’t finish the sentence. Nicole was there in a flash, shoving me backward with a force that sent me sprawling onto the pavement. “Enough!” she screamed. “He was playing a joke! It’s April Fool’s, for god’s sake! Why do you have to be so miserable? You’re lucky I don’t call the cops for assault!” She helped Parker up and led him to her car, never once looking back at my scraped, bleeding palms. I thought she was just venting. But when I got back to my hotel, two police officers were waiting for me. “Mr. Todd? We received a report of a physical assault in public. You’re coming with us.” 4. At the station, Nicole was holding an ice pack to Parker’s cheek. She looked at me with a face made of stone. “This is intentional harm,” she told the officer. “My fiancé has a mild concussion. I want to press charges. No settlements. I want the full three days of detention, the fine, and a public apology.” The pain in my head from the fall was getting worse. “They started it! He destroyed my property! Check the boutique’s security cameras!” But when they pulled the footage, it had been “cleaned.” The record showed me entering, standing around, and leaving. The incident with the water and the dumpster was nowhere to be found. Nicole had deleted the evidence. The officer shook his head. “If they won’t settle and you have no proof, my hands are tied.” I looked at the paperwork: three days in county jail, a $2,000 fine, and a court-ordered apology. My phone buzzed. A text from Nicole. [You care so much about your pride. If you apologize to him in front of my friends, I’ll drop this.] [You don’t want a criminal record following you around when you’re trying to find someone else to take care of you, do you?] I let out a jagged, hysterical laugh. Tears finally spilled over. “Officer,” I said, my voice cracking. “I’ll take the three days.” Nicole’s jaw dropped. “Jackson! Don’t be a martyr. Just say you’re sorry!” “I am sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I ever met you.” She grabbed Parker’s arm and stormed past me. As she went, she intentionally clipped my shoulder, sending me stumbling. My lower back hit the heavy metal door handle of the precinct. A sharp, white-hot spark of pain shot up my spine. I instinctively reached out, grabbing the hem of her coat to steady myself. She didn’t show concern. She didn’t flinch. “Stop acting,” she hissed. “I’m not falling for your pathetic plays for sympathy anymore. You want to be tough? Be tough in a cell.” She ripped her coat out of my hand and walked away. I hit the floor hard. The world began to tilt and fade. I woke up in a hospital bed. A concussion and a localized spinal contusion. The officer who escorted me looked sympathetic. “We need to contact your family or your emergency contact to settle the discharge.” “No,” I said, clutching the thin hospital blanket. “I’ll handle it myself.” I spent three days in that hospital under “custodial supervision.” I used the time to rebook my flight. The moment my time was up, I headed straight for the airport. As I sat in the back of the Uber, a message arrived. [I’m at the station to pick you up. I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Come out so we can go home.] I didn’t reply. I blocked her number, deleted every photo of us, and gripped my grandfather’s pocket watch—now dented but still ticking—as I boarded the plane to London. Goodbye, Nicole. We’re done.

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