I don't quite remember how I left the inn. The cool evening breeze slipping down my collar brought me back to reality.

Megan stood beside me, her expression uncertain, as if she was on the brink of confessing something. After a long pause, she whispered, "I'm sorry."

I forced a smile. "You all knew, didn’t you? Was it fun playing me for a fool?"

Most of the people in that room were familiar to me. Whenever we met, they'd greet me with a friendly "sister-in-law," their words and actions full of respect and approval. But behind closed doors, they revealed another side.

They say if you want to know if someone truly cares about you, observe how their friends treat you. I never imagined they’d be so unified, unified enough to stage a charade right in front of me.

My heart felt leaden, as if every ounce of energy and spirit had been drained, leaving everything else feeling empty and unnecessary.

"...Don't let them know I was here."

I signaled for a taxi without giving Megan another look. As I struggled to piece together my next steps, unbidden memories of Zavier surfaced in my mind.

When we first met, I had just arrived in Chicago and was unfamiliar with the city. My car got rear-ended, and the other driver and his family, seeing I was alone, acted arrogantly, threatening me against calling the police and offering me a hundred bucks to settle.

I was completely stunned.

Zavier happened to pass by at that moment. He was the only one who came forward to help me.

Before I could thank him, he had disappeared, leaving me with a lingering sense of regret.

A month later, during a company meeting on a bid, I saw him again. His startup, founded with some friends, was one of the bidders.

After the meeting, he managed to secure a partnership, and I ended up being one of the coordinators, which led to more frequent interactions.

Perhaps it was the confidence in his voice when he spoke, or maybe the casual "Good morning" he would toss my way, or even the faint, indescribable scent he carried... At some point, I found myself drawn to him, inexplicably.

Then I asked, "Are you single?"

He paused, then smiled and nodded, "Why? Are you planning to chase me?"

I said yes.

He laughed again, "I'm not easy to catch. If you fail, no crying, okay?"

I assured him I wasn't that fragile.

Little did I know, two years later, I would look back on these moments and find myself crying, unable to see the road ahead or the way back.

As I stepped out of the cab, Robin, the driver, offered me some advice, "Miss, no matter how rough things get, it’ll pass. You're still young. Even if you hit a dead end, you can always turn around."

Yes, it's time to turn around. I'm not a sore loser. I just need a bit of time.

The next afternoon, Zavier sent me a photo capturing the autumn leaves drifting down outside his office window.

"The project is finally wrapped up."

"I heard from a colleague about a new gourmet snack spot that just opened on the west side. Sounds like your kind of scene. How about we check it out tonight?"

He really knew me.

After eight days of giving him the cold shoulder, my anger had mostly cooled. In the past, all it took was a small gesture from him to win me over.

But that was before. Now, what I felt was a wave of revulsion.

Spread out on the table before me were the findings of a private investigator.

Zavier’s hidden and open life were revealed to me for the first time.

Before I even met him, Zavier had a girlfriend of six years.

They were classmates and each other’s first love. They met at sixteen, started dating at eighteen, got engaged at twenty-three, and then Zavier moved to Boston to start his career solo.

The following year, when I was twenty-two, I met twenty-four-year-old Zavier and unwittingly intruded on their relationship.

It was Zavier who kept all of this from me, turning me into what I loathed, without my consent.

The truth fueled a deep-seated fury within me.

I wanted to confront Zavier, to ask if he was disgusted with himself.

I also wanted to reach out to that girl and ask why she hadn't held on tighter.

But when I checked her Instagram, each post, photo, and video, tagged with their precise dates, was overflowing with her sincere love.

The anger gradually morphed into an unspeakable pain and lingering guilt.

Her name was Aaliyah. She was beautiful and gentle.

They’d studied for their A-levels together, imagined the future side by side, celebrated anniversaries, and watched sunsets hand in hand...

I wasn’t the only one who trusted and poured my emotions into Zavier; she did too.

Clearly, I was a victim as well, yet somehow, I ended up being the antagonist in someone else's love story. How ludicrous.

As I'd been ignoring notifications for too long, my phone screen kept lighting up on the desk.

I picked up the call, and Zavier's voice hesitantly filtered through.

"Helen, why haven't you picked up or replied? You have no idea how worried I've been. I..."

I cut him off sharply. "Enough! Zavier, is deceiving me your idea of a joke? Is playing both sides thrilling?"

"Helen, what are you suggesting? Are you misunderstanding me?"

"Oh yes, I mistook you for being decent before."

"Cut the pretense, Zavier. I know about your wedding plans. Your friend spilled everything."