Chapter 2My Girlfriend Became His Wife

I hailed an Uber for Simon and Mack, watched the red taillights vanish around the corner, and began the long walk home through the crisp February wind to clear my head.

At the table, I had played it cool. And while it was true that the initial shock had passed, I’d be lying if I said there wasn't a dull ache behind my ribs when Simon’s phone slid across that table. Five years isn't pocket change. You don't live alongside someone for half a decade—building routines, learning their fears, making space for their breathing in the dark—without leaving some skin behind.

Still, that hollow ache barely lasted ten minutes.

It dissolved under the sheer weight of what she had done. A woman with a live-in partner of five years tells him she has "urgent business" on Valentine’s Day, sneaks down to City Hall with another man to get married, posts it for the world to see, and deliberately cuts out the one person she was supposed to love.

Whoever ended up with her was in for a miserable life. I had just dodged the bullet.

I had tried, over the past twelve months, to talk to her about boundaries. Every time I brought up Brett, she flared up with that self-righteous indignation she wore like armor:

"Brett is like a little brother to me, Patrick! He doesn't know anyone in this city, and it’s brutal out here for fresh grads. Heaven forbid I look out for someone from back home! Why have you become so petty, so insecure?"

In her mind, the moral high ground belonged exclusively to her. No matter the situation, I was always cast as the cold, narrow-minded villain. But I hadn't done anything wrong, and I wasn't going to apologize for having eyes.

We just weren't right for each other anymore.

Looking back now, I felt an almost euphoric wave of gratitude. We hadn't bought a condo together. We hadn't combined our finances. We hadn't wasted fifty grand on an elaborate reception only to have this bomb go off later.

The apartment was pitch-black when I unlocked the front door. Samantha wasn't home.

I took a long, cold shower, threw on a fresh T-shirt and sweatpants, and lay on the living room sofa, mindlessly scrolling through video clips on my phone. The blue light washed over the ceiling. Before I knew it, my eyes grew heavy, and I drifted off against the cushions.

Sometime after two in the morning, the metallic rasp of a key turning in the lock jerked me awake, followed by the muffled scuff of heels against the entryway runner.

The ceiling light flashed on with a sharp snap.

I squinted against the harsh glare. Samantha stepped in, slipping her purse off her shoulder. The moment she saw me stretched out on the couch, her brow pulled tight with familiar irritation.

"Why are you sleeping here? You're going to catch a cold."

I rubbed my pounding temples, slowly pushing myself upright. My voice was smooth, completely free of edge. "Went out for drinks with the guys. Lost track of time scrolling clips, dozed off."

Without waiting for a response, I got up and headed straight for the primary bedroom.

Samantha paused, catching the chill radiating from my posture. Something flickered across her face—a rare tremor of guilt. She hurried over, her fingers catching my forearm, her tone dropping into an apologetic, wheedling register.

"Patrick... look, about today. Something came up at the office, an absolute emergency. I’m so sorry about Valentine’s Day. Please don't be mad. This weekend, I’ll take you out somewhere really nice to make it up to you, okay?"

I stopped.

I didn't turn around. With deliberate slowness, I pulled my arm from her grip.

"Don't worry about it," I said, my tone as flat as unruffled glass. "You don't need to make anything up to me."