Chapter 2

I hung up and started packing.

In this mansion perched on the edge of Beverly Hills, there really wasn't much that belonged to me.

The expensive fiddle-leaf fig on the terrace—*they'd* picked it out together at that Malibu nursery.

The California-leather sofa in the living room was lined neatly with limited-edition figurines *they'd* brought back from Disneyland.

Even the double-door Smeg fridge was stuffed with the sugar-free seltzers, craft beers, and air-flown seasonal fruit that the five of *them* loved.

The strawberries Julian had once picked up for me on a whim were shoved into the most forgotten corner of the crisper, skin split, weeping sour, rotting juice.

And yet, the night we'd bought this house, Julian had held me tight and sworn: "This is *our* home, Evelyn. Just the two of us. No one else can ever intrude on us here."

Now every corner reeked of their late-night parties, their games, their laughter.

It wasn't a home. It was a hotel suite for entertaining friends.

At two in the morning, the lock clicked. Julian walked in reeking of whiskey, a pink pastry box dangling from his hand.

...

It wasn't a home. It was a hotel suite for entertaining friends.

At two in the morning, the lock clicked. Julian walked in reeking of whiskey, a pink pastry box dangling from his hand.

"Baby, don't do this, okay?" He rubbed his temple, worn out. "It was just a joke at a party. Nothing personal. We're getting married in a few days. Grow up a little."

He opened the box and pushed it toward me. "I made a detour to grab your favorite strawberry tart. Let me apologize on their behalf, hm?"

I said nothing. I just stared coldly at the dainty little dessert.

The tip of the tart had been bitten off. A perfect set of teeth marks was left behind.

The truth was, I didn't even like strawberries.

Back in their circle, strawberry was the one flavor all five of them despised. So it was always the leftover they pushed onto me. Over time, they'd convinced themselves it was my favorite.

My instincts told me: this half-eaten strawberry tart was Chloe's discarded leftover.

I lifted my head slowly. My voice was calm.

"Call off the wedding, Julian."

"Chloe's leftovers make me sick."

The evasion in his eyes flashed into anger.

"Evelyn! Could you be any *more* sensitive?" His voice rose. "It's just a dessert—do you have to conjure up an entire soap opera out of it? Chloe and I ended a long time ago! You're on me like a paranoid guard dog every single day, and I'm exhausted!"

I laughed, cold and sharp, and stared right through him.

"*I* make you tired? I'd think the past four years of you and everyone else putting on a full-scale performance behind my back would be a lot more exhausting."

Julian and I had been together since high school.

Then he left for Europe to study, and we survived four years long-distance. When he finally came back, he suddenly had every excuse in the book to delay the wedding.

All of my friends kept telling me, "A man has to focus on his career first. Pushing him too hard will ruin his work."

So I waited, foolishly, for him to give me a title.

Only tonight did I understand—for the seven years of our relationship, he and Chloe had never actually ended.

No wonder he never once posted me on Instagram or Facebook as his girlfriend.

Even in group photos, if half my shoulder was visible in the frame, he'd delete it within seconds and repost it cropped.

I once asked him, in tears, why. He just stroked my hair, indulgent.

"Silly girl. I'm protecting you. There are too many dangers in our circle."

Back then, I was naïve enough to think it was consideration.

Now I understood. He wasn't afraid others would envy me. He was afraid the girl he kept tucked away in his heart would *see* me.