My stomach cramped. Skipping breakfast left a dull hum in my ears, but the memories cut through the airplane cabin noise with crystal clarity.

Seven years ago, L'Atelier gallery smelled of oil paint and old wood.

"You understand Cézanne better than the curator," Adrian noted, pausing in front of a sprawling canvas.

"I just pay attention to the brushstrokes," I replied, keeping my hands clasped behind my back.

He stepped closer. The scent of bergamot and expensive wool surrounded me.

"I am paying attention to you," he murmured.

"I am working."

"Then tell me more about the painting."

He did not look at the art once. He just watched my mouth move.

That afternoon started it all. The secret office romance. The hidden touches in the supply closet.

Then came the rules.

"We keep this quiet," he insisted one evening, buttoning his collar in my bedroom.

"Why?" I asked, pulling the sheets up to my chest.

"No public announcements. It complicates the board of directors."

"I am just a gallery assistant."

"You are mine," he corrected, leaning down to kiss my forehead. "But we leave it at the door."

"It feels like I am hiding," I whispered.

"You are protecting us," he promised. "Let them talk. We know the truth."

I agreed. I thought I was guarding our relationship.

Instead, I handed Camille the crown.

"Did you hear about Marcus Bell?" my coworker whispered across the cubicle a year later.

"The department head?" I asked, stamping a shipping invoice.

"Fired. He snapped at Camille over a missed deadline."

I stopped stamping. "Marcus has been here for a decade. He yelled at me just last week for messing up a font size."

"You aren't the boss's wife," she snickered, rolling her chair away.

The title tasted like dirt. I confronted Adrian that night in his study.

"Marcus was just doing his job," I argued, leaning against his mahogany desk.

Adrian loosened his tie, his jaw tense. "Her father is a family friend, Ava. I have to look out for her."

"By firing your best manager? Over a deadline?"

"He was disrespectful."

"He treats everyone like that!"

"By maintaining respect in my company, I keep order. Drop it."

He always chose her comfort over my reality. The preferential treatment bled from the office straight into our home.

Missed dinners. Late nights. Excuses that wore thin.

The company group chat pinged at midnight on our fifth anniversary.

A photo loaded on my screen. Adrian and Camille, smiling under the neon marquee of the local cinema.

The movie poster behind them read *Forever Yours*.

A phantom hand squeezed my throat.

Just last week, I had tugged his sleeve in the kitchen.

"Everyone goes to see it with the person they love," I pleaded, holding up my phone to show him the trailer. "Let's go."

He didn't even look up from his laptop.

"Watching a brainless romance is a waste of life," he dismissed.

"It is supposed to be a masterpiece."

"Go with your friends, Avie. I have real work to do."

Yet there he was. Smiling in the photograph. Wasting his life with her.

The front door unlocked at 1:00 AM.

Adrian walked into the dark living room, his suit jacket slung over one arm. He carried a small paper bag in his other hand and set it on the glass coffee table.

"Was *Forever Yours* any good?" I asked. My voice held zero inflection.

He froze. A flicker of surprise crossed his features before settling into ice.

"Are you stalking me?" he demanded.

I stood up. My chest heaved.

"Do I need to?" I shot back. "Your sweet photo with her is plastered all over the company chat!"

He crossed his arms, leaning back on his heels. "It was just a movie, Ava."

"You told me it was a waste of life!"

"Camille wanted to go. Her father asked me to keep her company this weekend."

"You always have an excuse," I hissed. "Every single time she calls, you run."

"She is an employee and a family friend. Stop being hysterical."

"Hysterical? I am looking at a picture of my boyfriend on a date with another woman!"

"If you want to break up, just say it!" I yelled, the volume tearing at my throat. "You do not have to lie to me!"

He stared at me like I was a stranger. No guilt. No frantic apologies.

"If you do not even have basic trust in me, I have nothing to say," he replied.

"Basic trust? You lied about working late!"

"I did work late. The movie was an afterthought."

"You are suffocating me with these excuses."

He rubbed his temples. "I am exhausted, Avie. I do not have the energy to fight."

The calm in his voice broke something inside me.

I snatched the paper bag off the table. The material crinkled loudly in my grip.

"Stop acting like I am crazy!" I screamed, hurling it at the hardwood floor.

Adrian did not flinch. He just watched the bag hit the ground.

"Clean up your mess," he muttered.

He turned on his heel and walked out the door.

The heavy wooden slab slammed shut behind him. The lock clicked.

I stood paralyzed in the quiet apartment. My breathing echoed in the empty space.

A small object rolled against my toe.

I glanced down.

A chocolate.

The bag had ripped open. Round, handmade truffles scattered across the floor. The foil wrappers caught the dim overhead light.

My knees buckled. I dropped to the floor and reached for one.

I counted them, lining them up against the edge of the rug.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Seven chocolates for seven years.

I flipped a gold wrapper over. His familiar fountain pen ink stained the label.

*Avie.*

A laugh bubbled up from my chest. It scraped my throat, turning into a sob before the first tear hit my lap.

He remembered the anniversary. He bought the gift.

He loved me, but he always delivered it wrapped in pain.

I gathered the chocolates into my palms, sitting alone in the wreckage of our milestone. His affection existed, but it could never reach my hands without drawing blood first.

The airplane jolted, pulling me back to the present.

Outside my window, a sea of white clouds rolled like violent ocean waves. The engine hummed a steady, droning note.

I leaned my head against the plastic wall.

That night on the floor ruined me. The chocolates made me soft. They convinced me he just needed time, that we just needed to communicate better.

I gave him that time. I swallowed my pride. I tried to fix us.

I remembered typing out the text message exactly a year later, my fingers trembling over the glowing screen.

"Tonight is our sixth anniversary," I had typed. "I am waiting for you at home."

I waited as the sun set. I waited as the streetlights flickered on. I waited until the food went cold and the candles burned down to the glass.

He never came back.

I swallowed my pride and opened our chat.

"I am sorry for snapping without talking first," I typed.

"Please come home," I added, hitting send.

Three days passed. He never replied. He never walked through the front door.

Now, the golden sunset of our sixth anniversary bled into a pitch-black night. I sat at the dining table in our Brooklyn apartment, staring at the empty chair across from me.

I placed my phone perfectly in the center of the wooden surface, screen facing up.

"Tonight is our sixth anniversary," I texted him, my thumbs numb. "I am waiting for you at home. Let's sit down and talk, okay?"

Silence.

The wax from the tapered candles melted onto the brass holders. The seared steak turned a dull, unappetizing gray. The opened bottle of Merlot sat untouched, the air turning its rich scent sour.

At 10:45 PM, I stood up.

I grabbed my thin trench coat and walked out the door.

The late autumn wind whipped dry leaves against my bare legs. I pressed my phone to my ear, marching down the dark street toward his office building.

Busy tone. Again and again.

I turned the corner into the narrow back alley behind the corporate garage. The streetlights flickered, casting long, warped shadows across the damp pavement.

A hand clamped around my wrist, yanking me into the darkness.

"Going somewhere?" a voice slurred.

I stumbled, scraping my knees against the concrete. The heavy stench of stale beer hit my face.

Marcus Bell.

"Let go of me!" I shouted, twisting my arm.

He pinned me against the brick wall. "I don't dare touch the boss's woman," he spat, his grip tightening like a vise. "But I dare touch you."

"Marcus, back off!" I warned him. "I will call the police!"

"Call them!" he roared. "He ruined my career for that little intern!"

His fist slammed into my face.

The impact sent my glasses flying into the dark. A sharp crack echoed in my ears. Warm liquid gushed from my nose, dripping past my lips. My vision fractured into blurry, spinning lights.

"You think you are untouchable?" Marcus sneered, raising his hand again.

"Hey! Get away from her!" a deep voice yelled from the mouth of the alley.

Footsteps pounded toward us. Marcus cursed, shoved me to the ground, and sprinted in the opposite direction.

I curled into a ball against the cold brick, clutching my stomach.

My phone rang.

The sudden noise made me jump, a short scream tearing from my throat. I scrambled across the dirt, grabbing the illuminated screen.

Adrian.

My spine, stiff with terror all night, instantly collapsed.

"Adrian—" I sobbed, the word scraping out of my raw throat.

"Adrian is taking a shower."

The voice was soft, sweet, and entirely female.

Camille.

"I saw you called a few times," she continued, her tone dripping with innocent curiosity. "Who is this, and what do you want?"

The blood in my veins turned to ice. My throat felt like someone had shoved hot coals down it, searing the flesh away.

I ended the call.

I dragged myself up, limping block by block until the blue glow of a precinct sign appeared.

The harsh fluorescent lights inside the station burned my eyes.

"Who did this to you?" the desk officer asked, handing me a tissue for my bleeding nose.

"A former coworker," I answered, my voice hollow.

"Do you want to press charges?"

"Yes."

He typed on his keyboard. "We need a family member to take you home. You might have a concussion."

"No," I croaked. "I live alone."

I gave him my Brooklyn address.

I walked back out into the freezing night. I checked the time.

00:01.

A new day. The anniversary was officially over.

My screen lit up. Adrian's name flashed in the dark.

I hit accept and pressed the speaker to my ear.

"Do you know what you did wrong?" Adrian asked. His tone was calm, arrogant, and completely steady.

He wasn't missing. He wasn't too busy to answer. He ignored me for three days, ignored my calls tonight, just to punish me. He waited until the exact minute the anniversary ended to accept my surrender.

Tears spilled over my bruised cheeks, stinging the fresh cuts like rubbing alcohol.

"You ignored me on purpose," I whispered.

"You needed time to reflect on your lack of trust," he lectured. "Next time, you will communicate better."

"Adrian," I rasped, my voice sounding like tearing paper. "Let's break up."

The line went dead silent.

One second passed. Then two.

"Fine," he sneered. "Don't regret it."

Click.

He hung up.

I stood alone on the empty sidewalk. No frantic questions. No demands for an explanation. Seven years, severed in three seconds.

I thought I would collapse. I thought I would scream until my lungs gave out.

Instead, I walked home, crawled into bed in my dirty clothes, and slept like a corpse.

The next morning, the bathroom mirror showed me a stranger.

A dark purple bruise covered my left eye. My nose was swollen. A thick, ugly scab crusted the corner of my mouth.

I picked up a comb and smoothed my tangled hair.

I grabbed a tube of red lipstick from the vanity. I carefully painted over the scab, hiding the dried blood.

My hand shook.

The plastic tube rattled against the glass mirror.

I remembered my coworker's mocking voice. *You aren't the boss's wife.*

I remembered the seven chocolate truffles scattered across the floor.

I remembered Camille's sweet voice over the phone. *Adrian is taking a shower.*

I didn't lose to her. I lost to a man who never once bothered to explain himself to me.

I dropped the lipstick into the sink. I hated him.

At 4:00 AM the following night, I sat in the dark with my phone.

I blocked his number. I deleted his social media profiles. I erased his email from my contacts.

I thought the purge would feel victorious. Instead, it felt like amputating my own arm without anesthesia.

The next two weeks felt like drowning in shallow water.

I showed up to work on time. I filed the gallery reports. I smiled at the clients.

But my chest held a gaping, rotting hole. I carved him out to survive, but the wound was too large.

"Ava, bring these files to the boardroom," my manager ordered on a Tuesday morning. "They need the Q3 projections right now."

"I will take them," I said, grabbing the heavy folders.

"Are you okay?" she asked, frowning. "You look pale."

"I am fine."

I walked down the hall toward the executive suite.

The boardroom featured floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Adrian sat at the head of the long oak table, looking flawless in a tailored navy suit.

He commanded the room, his voice projecting authority. He didn't look like a man who just lost a seven-year relationship. He looked entirely unaffected.

Camille sat two chairs down.

She caught his eye. He offered her a small, private smile.

I stopped walking.

My heart hammered against my ribs. A loud ringing started in my ears, drowning out the office chatter around me.

I hadn't slept a full night since the alley. I hadn't eaten a real meal in days.

The files slipped from my hands, scattering across the carpet.

"Ava?" someone called out.

The glass walls spun. The fluorescent lights flared into blinding white streaks.

My knees hit the floor. The world went completely black.

When I finally opened my eyes, the harsh scent of antiseptic filled my nose, and a heart monitor beeped steadily next to my head.