Chapter 3

Ivy sent back two words: "Thank you."

Thank you.

What was she thanking me for?

For stepping aside? For letting her win? For handing over five years of my life on a silver platter?

I didn't answer.

I closed her chat and opened the family group again.

It was in total chaos.

Zoe had posted over a dozen messages, demanding answers.

"Gwen, what was that picture supposed to mean?"

"Why aren't you answering?"

"Derek hasn't texted back at all. Did you pick a fight with him?"

"Listen to me, Gwen, if you dare falsely accuse my brother, I won't let this slide."

Derek’s mother had sent several more voice notes.

I didn't bother listening. I already knew what she would say.

Nothing more than telling me to calm down, not to blow things out of proportion, not to ruin the peace of this family.

Peace.

What a pathetic joke.

When her son was busy cheating, why didn't she care about peace then?

I set my phone down and stood up, scanning the apartment.

The place I had called home for three years.

On the living room wall hung a framed picture of Derek and me at the beach from last summer. His arm was around my waist, and my eyes were crinkled in pure joy.

On the sofa was the blush-pink throw pillow he bought me.

On the coffee table sat a vase of roses he brought home last week, their petals already turning dry and brown at the edges.

In the kitchen, a pot of beef stew was still sitting on the stove. He had told me he’d be home late and asked me to save him some.

There was no need for that anymore.

I walked into the bedroom and slid open the closet doors.

His clothes took up two-thirds of the space—suits, dress shirts, sweaters, jeans, all neatly organized on hangers.

I had bought almost all of them.

The blue dress shirt was his birthday gift last year. The silk tie was picked out two Christmases ago. That winter down jacket took me two hours in line on Black Friday to get his size.

I ripped them off the hangers, one by one, and hurled them onto the floor.

Deep inside the closet was a shoebox. I opened it to find stacks of printed photos.

Pictures of Derek and me.

From our first year together until now, preserved with care.

I pulled them out of their sleeves, tearing some in the process, and dumped them straight into the trash can.

Then I grabbed the designer bag, along with the photo of him and Ivy, and shoved it down into the trash as well.

I didn't want a single trace of Derek left in this home.

I stood by him when he had nothing, helped him navigate the brutal early days of his startup, helped take care of his sick mother, and carried him through every low point.

I thought we were finally getting married this year.

My mom had brought it up multiple times: "You two have been together for five years. When are you making it official?"

I always made excuses for him, saying he was busy, that we’d talk about it once his projects settled down.

My mom told me I was too soft on him. She said five years was too long to date, that I'd be thirty before I knew it.

I told her not to worry. I told her Derek treated me so well.

Well.

He treated me so well that he kept another woman on the side for three whole years.

He treated me so well that he got her pregnant.

He treated me so well that he handed me her worn-out bag as an anniversary gift.

I was the biggest fool on earth.

The front door lock clicked.

Derek was home.