The winter wind cut sharp against my face.

I pulled my coat tight as I walked up the concrete steps of my apartment building. The street was quiet, dusted with dirty gray slush.

A shadow moved by the entrance.

Jonah stepped out from under the awning. His wool coat was unbuttoned, his tie loose at his throat. His breath came out in short, white clouds.

"Did you really have to call my mother?" he demanded.

His voice was pure ice. He didn’t ask if my stomach was better. He didn’t ask why I left the hospital.

I stopped two steps below him. "I didn't call her, Jonah."

"Bullshit." He took a step down, looming over me. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles jumped. "She showed up ten minutes after you left. She screamed at Mira. She made a scene in front of the entire fourth floor. Mira had a panic attack, Paige. Do you have any idea what you did?"

"I didn't call her," I repeated. My voice was flat and even.

Jonah scoffed. A cruel, bitter smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"You're so pathetic," he said. The words rolled out easily, like he had kept them on his tongue for years. "You think you can play these little games? You think dressing like her and talking like her makes you anything close to what she is?"

The street fell dead silent. A car drove past, tires splashing through the slush.

Jonah leaned in, his eyes narrowing into cold slits.

"You're nothing but a pathetic knockoff, Paige. You always have been."

I looked at him.

I waited for the sting. I waited for my eyes to fill with tears, for my throat to tighten, for that familiar ache in my ribs.

Nothing came.

Instead, a quiet snap echoed inside my head. Like a fuse blowing out in the dark.

Something inside me simply switched off. Completely. Permanently.

I didn't blink. I didn't shout. I didn't offer a single word of defense.

I stepped around him on the stairs. I pulled out my key, unlocked the heavy glass door, and stepped into the warm lobby. I let the door swing shut behind me. The lock engaged with a solid, heavy click.

Through the glass, Jonah stood frozen on the steps, staring at me like he expected me to turn around and beg.

I didn't look back. I took the elevator up to the fifth floor.

My apartment was dark and completely still.

I didn't turn on the living room lights. I walked straight into my bedroom, turned on the overhead bulb, and opened the double doors of my closet.

Rows of clothes hung before me under the harsh light.

Pastel pink cardigans. Cream-colored silk blouses. Pale blue floral dresses that fell just past the knee. Nude ballet flats lined up neatly on the bottom rack. Soft, modest, and delicate.

Every single item was something I had bought to look like Mira.

For six years, I had dressed like a ghost.

I dragged a stack of flat-pack moving boxes from behind the dresser and popped the first one open.

Then I went to work.

I grabbed the pastel cardigans off their velvet hangers. I folded each one with steady, deliberate hands and laid it into the box. Next came the floral dresses, the linen skirts, the pale trench coat Jonah had praised three years ago.

I didn't rip them. I didn't cry. I was completely calm.

I took my phone out, snapped quick photos of the designer tags, and listed them on a resale app in bundles. *Pristine condition. Lightly worn.* I set the prices low. I just wanted them gone.

Within an hour, the hangers hung bare. The shelves were stripped clean. Three large cardboard boxes sat taped and stacked near my bedroom door.

My closet was completely empty.

I stood on my tiptoes and reached all the way to the back of the top shelf. My fingertips brushed against cold cardboard covered in dust.

I pulled it down.

It was an old shoebox, battered at the corners and sealed with a strip of black duct tape.

I sat on the edge of my bare bed and peeled the tape away.

Inside sat my old life.

My black crew jacket, the fabric faded and soft from years of floor work. My worn leather fingerless gloves. A pair of beaten-up high-top sneakers with flat red laces.

I picked up the jacket. It smelled of old cedar and faint gym sweat. It felt heavier than all the silk and cashmere combined.

I pressed the fabric against my chest. My heart gave a hard, sudden thud against my ribs. It felt like waking up from a six-year coma.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand.

I scrolled past Jonah’s name. I scrolled past his family's group chat. I went all the way down to a number I hadn't dialed since I was seventeen.

I opened the thread. The last message from Gabriella was dated six years ago: *Paige, don't do this to yourself.*

My fingers moved across the keyboard. Fast. Certain.

*I'm back. Sign me up for Luminar.*

I hit send.

I stared at the screen, holding my breath.

Five seconds passed.

Seven.

In under ten seconds, the screen lit up with a reply.

*Your sneakers are still in my closet. Come get them.*

A short laugh broke out of my throat, raw and real in the empty room.

I pulled on the faded crew jacket, zipped it to my chin, and tied my hair back into a high, tight ponytail.

The knockoff was dead.

Paige was back.

The restaurant was on the Upper East Side. It had high ceilings, heavy chandeliers, and white marble floors that gleamed like ice.

I arrived twenty minutes late.

In the old days, I would have panicked. I would have texted Jonah five times with apologies. I would have worn a demure pastel dress, low nude pumps, and the pearl necklace his mother picked out for me.

Not tonight.

Tonight, I wore a sharp black blazer over a dark top. My hair was straight and down over my shoulders. My neck was bare. No pearls. No fake blush. I walked with my chin up and my spine rigid.

When I reached the private dining booth, the waiter pulled out an empty chair.

Both families were already there.

Mrs. Evans had a thick, navy leather planner open next to her bread plate. She was tapping a gold pen against the page, frowning at the dates. My mother sat across from her, quietly sipping her wine.

Jonah sat to my right. He had his suit jacket off, his sleeves rolled up, looking completely relaxed. He was sipping scotch.

When he looked at me, there was no shame in his eyes. There was no apology. He didn't look like a man who had called me a "pathetic knockoff" outside my apartment just forty-eight hours ago. To him, that cruel fight was already forgotten. He looked at me with an easy, smug satisfaction.

He thought I was back in line. He thought I was still his obedient shadow.

"You're late, Paige," Mrs. Evans said without looking up from her planner. "We only have the private room until eight. We need to lock in the venue before the weekend."

"Sorry," I said flatly. I didn't offer an excuse. I sat down.

Jonah reached over and placed a casual hand on the back of my chair. "Told you she'd make it, Mom. She probably just hit traffic on Fifth."

His hand felt heavy on my chair. Heavy and suffocating.

Mrs. Evans flipped a page. The paper made a sharp rustling sound. "I was thinking June at the country club. But the ballroom is booked on the second weekend. May in the Hamptons is an option, but the coastal fog ruins the photographs. What do you think, Jonah?"

"Hamptons is fine," Jonah said easily, swirling the ice in his glass. "Whatever you want, Mom. As long as the bar is open, our friends won't care."

Neither of them looked at me. Neither of them asked what I thought. It had been this way for six years. I was just an accessory in the background of Jonah’s life.

"The guest list is up to four hundred," Mrs. Evans continued, her pen scratching against the paper. "I cut ten from your father's business associates, but we still need room for the Hoffman family. Mira mentioned her parents might fly in from Chicago."

Jonah’s posture shifted slightly. A small, tight smile touched his lips at the mention of Mira’s name.

Across the table, my mother glanced at me. Her eyes were warm, but full of worry. She noticed my bare neck. She noticed my black blazer.

I lifted my water glass. The glass was cold against my palm. I took a slow sip.

Then I set the glass down.

The heavy crystal base hit the marble table with a sharp, clear *clink*.

The sound cut straight through Mrs. Evans’s voice.

"There won’t be a wedding," I said.

My voice wasn't loud. It wasn't shaky. It was completely calm and steady.

"Jonah and I are done."

The table went dead silent.

Mrs. Evans’s gold pen stopped mid-air. Her mouth hung open.

My mother’s hands froze around her wine glass. She didn't look angry. She looked stunned, her eyes widening in realization.

Jonah’s face drained of color. The smug smile vanished as if it had been wiped away with a cloth. He stared at me, blinking rapidly, like he couldn't process the words.

"Paige," Jonah said, his voice dropping into that familiar, dismissive warning tone. "Stop. Don't make a scene in front of our parents."

"I’m not making a scene," I said evenly. "I’m telling the truth. We're over."

"You're being ridiculous," he hissed, leaning closer. He reached out and grabbed for my wrist, trying to pull my hand under the table.

I pulled my hand back. Smooth. Fast. Without flinching.

His fingers caught only empty air.

He looked down at his empty hand, shocked. I had never pulled away from him before. Not once in six years.

"Paige, wait—" Jonah stammered.

I didn't answer him. I didn't look at Mrs. Evans, whose face was turning from pale to a deep, furious crimson.

I stood up.

I reached back and pushed my chair in neatly until the wood met the edge of the table.

"Paige!" Jonah’s voice cracked.

I turned my back on him.

My heels clicked against the polished marble floor. *Tap. Tap. Tap.*

The sound was sharp and rhythmic. Behind me, I heard the violent scrape of wood as Jonah shoved his chair back.

"Paige, stop!" he shouted across the dining room. "Get back here!"

I didn't turn around. I didn't quicken my pace. I kept my head high, walking straight past the host stand and through the heavy brass doors.

The heavy glass door swung shut behind me, cutting off his voice.

Outside, the cold winter air hit my face. It was sharp and freezing.

I stopped on the sidewalk.

I closed my eyes and pulled in a long, deep breath.

The air burned in my throat, but it was pure. It was clean. For the first time in six long years, I could finally breathe.