Chapter 4The Secret Mistress Behind My Eight-Year Relationship

I didn't step outside the apartment for four days.

I drew the blackout curtains tight. I tossed my phone onto the far end of the sofa, flinching every time the screen lit up.

Stella's messages were relentless.

I knew it was her because the phone buzzed in rapid succession every few minutes.

On the fifth day, I finally picked it up.

Thirty-two unread messages.

She had sent me screenshots of her private chats with Noah.

Babe, I booked the bridal boutique. We're going in for fittings next month.

Did you pack your bags? Our flight is early tomorrow. I'll pick you up.

Miss you. FaceTime me tonight.

Every single message was like a red-hot iron rod, driven deep into flesh that had already gone numb.

She sent one final paragraph.

Anna, Noah noticed your phone was off. He said he was incredibly relieved.

He hated it when you threw your little episodes. He said when your brain misfires, no one can stop you. He said you're exactly like your crazy mother.

Exactly like your crazy mother.

Those words looped in my head like a broken record.

I threw the phone as hard as I could at the floor.

Then, I slowly bent down and picked it up.

The screen was splintered, but it still worked.

I slumped against the kitchen counter, staring at the cheap aluminum pot on the stove. The pot Noah used to boil my oatmeal every morning.

A faded sticky note was still clinging to the fridge. His handwriting. Don't forget to eat breakfast.

Eight years.

He used to sit in the back row of our high school homeroom, sneaking the best parts of his lunch onto my desk.

I would tell him I wasn't hungry.

He would say, If you don't eat, I don't eat.

He was the one who called the police on my stepdad.

The day the cops finally dragged that monster out of our house, Noah had pulled me into his chest, holding me so tight I could barely breathe.

He had whispered, Anna, no one is ever going to put a hand on you again.

I will protect you.

His eyes were red, his chin resting softly on top of my head, his chest radiating heat.

That was the first time in my entire life I felt like surviving wasn't an impossible task.

But look at him now.

He took all of my most precious, vulnerable memories and weaponized them to justify throwing me away.

I had no idea when the shift happened. When he started playing the dutiful martyr to my face, while calling me a psycho behind my back.

On the evening of the sixth day, I took a long, burning hot shower and put on clean clothes.

I turned on every light in the apartment and scrubbed the place top to bottom.

Then, I started packing.

I only packed the things that strictly belonged to me.

My toothbrush. My towels. The dark red cardigan my grandmother knitted for me right before she passed away.

I left the reading lamp he bought me.

I left the shoebox full of love letters.

I picked up the framed photograph of us by the TV and placed it face down on the wood.

I zipped up my suitcase and dragged it to the front door.

I took a sticky note and a pen from the counter and wrote exactly four words.

Eight years. Paid in full.

I slapped the note on the shoe rack and dropped my keys right next to it.

When I stepped out, the hallway was perfectly quiet.

The elevator dinged.

I pulled my suitcase inside and hit the button for the lobby.

Right before the metal doors slid shut, I took one last look at the place I used to call home.

And then, I never looked back.