Faith Frazier POV:

I was never one for dramatics. I prided myself on my rationality, my calm demeanor. But that night, sleep offered no escape. I thrashed in bed, locked in a furious, tear-soaked argument with Dale in my dreams.

"You said you were tired, Dale!" I screamed in the dream, tears streaming down my face. "But you never told me! You let me believe everything was fine! Whose fault was it, really, that I went abroad? I went because you encouraged me, because we planned a future together!" My dream-self was a whirlwind of accusations. "Why couldn't you just tell me you were struggling? Why did you hide it?"

The dream ended as all our recent conversations did: in a cold, bitter stalemate.

I woke with a pounding headache, the phantom arguments echoing in my ears. Dale was already awake, dressed impeccably, exuding his usual charismatic aura. Our eyes met across the room, and for a long moment, we simply stared, the silence thick with unspoken words. He sighed, a weary sound. "Don't make a scene, Faith," he said, his voice implying I was already being difficult.

He knelt, and for a moment, I saw the ghost of the boy I fell in love with, his young face earnest and full of devotion. He slipped my warm boots onto my feet, his touch gentle. But the familiar flutter in my heart was gone, replaced by a dull ache of bitterness and cold.

"Jetta is just a subordinate, a colleague," he repeated, his words a hollow comfort. "I can take you to the hospital, you can see for yourself. There's nothing going on." He sounded almost convincing. "We can talk properly then."

"Okay," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "But I have something to tell you first."

I had made my decision. I would pursue another advanced degree, at a university far from New York, a place where he had no connections, no influence. I had already booked a flight for a week later. This wasn't anger; it was a carefully considered escape. His words had been like shards of glass, embedding themselves deep in my flesh, a constant, throbbing pain. I wanted a love that was pure, untainted. If I couldn't have that, I would rather have nothing.

I wanted a clean break, for both our sakes.

The car ride to the hospital was silent. The tension in the air was so thick you could almost taste it. As we pulled up, his phone rang. I heard the muffled sound of a woman crying, a soft, pathetic wail. Dale's face immediately contorted with concern. "Something's come up," he said, his eyes already darting away from mine. "I need you to go up to the office first, I'll meet you there."

I wanted to tell him I didn't know the way, but he was already gone, his silhouette disappearing around the corner. I stood alone in the vast, empty parking lot, a sudden chill creeping into my bones. It took me a while to find my bearings, the sterile hospital environment feeling alien and overwhelming.

I finally found the right floor and approached the nurses' station. Their excited chatter carried clearly through the air. "Did you hear?" one whispered, "Mr. Atkins rushed here the moment Jetta called! She was so upset." Another chimed in, "He's so sweet. He treats her like a girlfriend."

My steps faltered. This was his "emergency."

"Apparently, he's always doting on her," a third nurse added. "Teaching her everything, hand-holding, the works. I even heard her family teasing him, asking when they were getting married!"

One nurse, a kind-faced woman, raised an eyebrow. "But doesn't he have a fiancée?"

"Oh, she's probably just some old hag he's stuck with," scoffed another. "Jetta is so much prettier, so much younger, and smart too! No wonder he prefers her."

A wave of self-loathing washed over me, threatening to consume me whole. I felt small, insignificant, unwanted. I turned, a bitter laugh bubbling in my throat.

And there they were: Dale and Jetta, standing at the end of the hallway. Jetta was wearing the anniversary jacket I had bought for Dale from London, the one he had told me was "too precious" to wear, that he had "put away for safekeeping."

He had woven a web of beautiful lies, each one now tearing at my flesh, leaving me bruised and raw. Jetta, her face a picture of innocent distress, was crying softly. Dale, his eyes filled with tender affection, gently wiped her tears. "Don't worry," he murmured, his voice a balm. "No one will ever hurt you again, not while I'm here."

"Who was that woman on the phone last night, Dale?" Jetta asked, her voice a soft, childlike plea.

Dale hesitated, a long, agonizing silence stretching between us. Then, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, "Just a friend. No one important."

Faith Frazier POV:

"No one important."

Those two words, spoken with such cold indifference, twisted in my gut like a knife. A bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped my lips. I looked at Dale, then at Jetta, and a stark realization hit me: I was nothing to him. A stranger.

Jetta, sensing victory, beamed. Her eyes, bright with a newfound possessiveness, flickered with triumph as she tiptoed, her soft lips brushing against Dale' s jawline. He didn't pull away. He just stood there, letting her mark her territory. My blood ran cold. The world spiraled around me, and I felt myself falling, falling into a black abyss.

I don't remember how I got downstairs or how I found myself back in our apartment. My phone buzzed again. It was Dale. His voice was hoarse, tinged with a nervous edge. "Did you… see anything?" he asked, the hesitation in his tone a clear admission of guilt.

"Are you afraid I did?" I retorted, the words burning my throat. Tears welled up, salty and bitter, tracing paths down my face. I couldn't understand. If he cared enough to ask, why did he betray me?

He let out a relieved sigh. "Look, just come back up, okay? Let's talk." His voice was light, almost cheerful.

"There's nothing left to talk about," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion, and hung up. I ignored his outraged shouts from the other end.

The task of erasing a decade of my life was monumental. I packed two large suitcases, filled with all the expensive gifts Dale had showered on me – the designer clothes, the jewelry, the limited-edition art pieces. Valuables that once symbolized his love now felt like shackles. I donated everything to a local charity, shedding the physical manifestations of a love that had become a gilded cage.

Then I walked to the glass cabinet. My hand trembled as I reached for the stack of airline tickets. The first one, faded and yellowed, brought a ghost of a smile to my lips. It was from our very first date, a weekend trip to Paris. He had kept it, a memento of new beginnings. The tenth, a surprise anniversary trip to Venice, where he proposed a picnic under the Rialto Bridge. The four-hundred-and-fiftieth – a picture of us, laughing, hand-in-hand, on a beach in Bali.

I hadn't forgotten anything. Every memory, every shared laugh, every tender moment was seared into my mind. A decade of love, etched into my very soul, now had to be ripped out, piece by agonizing piece.

I dropped the tickets, each one a testament to our history, into the fireplace. A match flared, igniting the corners of the paper. The flames danced, consuming the fragile remnants of our past. The warmth they generated was fleeting, quickly replaced by a chilling emptiness. I watched as the last embers died, leaving behind only ashes, a faint outline of city names still visible on the charred fragments.

A gaping void opened in my chest. My throat constricted, choked by a thousand untold sorrows. I couldn't speak, couldn't scream, couldn't cry. My heart was a barren wasteland, emptied of all emotion.

This was it. We were done. No debts, no lingering ties. Just ashes.

Faith Frazier POV:

I told my best friend everything. She slammed her fist on the table, her face contorted with fury. "That bastard!" she snarled, then her eyes softened with concern. "Are you really okay, Faith?"

I shook my head, my voice a hollow whisper. "I'm past being sad."

She nursed her drink, tears streaming down her face. "He was always so arrogant, so sure of himself," she muttered, "so sure he had you wrapped around his finger." She looked at me, her eyes bloodshot. "You're too good, Faith. You always choose to break rather than bend." She finished her drink, slamming the glass down. "I hope he tastes what it's like to truly lose you. I hope he searches the ends of the earth and never finds you. He'll regret it for the rest of his life."

Then she buried her face in her arms on the bar, sobbing.

I stared at her, then at my own reflection in the dimly lit glass. Would he regret it? Would he really?

Her boyfriend came to pick her up, still half-asleep and confused. I paid the bill, a strange sense of detachment washing over me. As I turned to leave, I bumped into one of Dale's friends. His eyes lit up with recognition. "Faith!" he exclaimed, grabbing my arm. "Thank God! Can you please talk some sense into Dale? He's completely wasted."

Before I could protest, he dragged me into a private room. Laughter and loud music assaulted my ears. Jetta, her eyes sparkling with false innocence, had just lost a game. Her "punishment" was to kiss a random person. She glanced at Dale, a sly, predatory glint in her eyes, then sidled up to him, her voice a soft purr. "Help me, Dale," she pleaded, her hands playfully tracing the outline of his chest.

Dale, his collar slightly open, his eyes glazed with alcohol, blinked slowly. "What?" he mumbled, clearly disoriented. He tried to shake his head, but Jetta was already too close. Her soft fingers brushed against his abs, and a shiver ran through him. His eyes darkened, his throat bobbed.

Then, he leaned in and kissed her. Hard.

His back was to the door, shielding him from my view, from the world. But Jetta saw me. Her eyes met mine, a smirk twisting her lips. She mouthed a word, a cruel, cutting whisper that pierced through the noise: "Old hag."

My eyes turned to ice. "Let me go," I snarled at Dale's friend, my voice low and dangerous.

"Faith, I'm so sorry," he stammered, trying to appease me. "It's just the alcohol, he doesn't mean it…"

Jetta glided over, her smile saccharine. "Did you see that, Faith? He kisses so passionately. Are you jealous?"

"You shameless little slut," I spat, my voice dripping with venom. "A home-wrecker, that's what you are."

Her face twisted in fury. "I'm not a home-wrecker!" she shrieked. "The one who isn't loved is the real home-wrecker! Look at you, so old, so ugly. And you think you're so smart, getting your degrees by sleeping with professors, don't you?"

My hand moved before I could even think. A sharp crack echoed through the room as my palm connected with her cheek. Her head snapped back, a crimson mark blooming on her pale skin.

"How dare you!" she screeched, clutching her face.

"How dare I?" I spat, my voice laced with pure rage. "Shut up, you pathetic little bitch!"

The shouting grew louder, drawing attention. Dale, his eyes still heavy with drink, finally turned towards the commotion.