Before he could continue, his phone buzzed. The distinctive chime that I had learned to recognize immediately went off—a notification meant only for her. He glanced at it, expression tightening as the screen lit up. “It’s something urgent. I’ll handle it and be back soon. Don’t wait up.”
The lie was so blatant I almost laughed. “Go ahead,” I said, dismissively waving him off. “I’ve gotten used to it.”
He lingered for a beat, as if debating whether to argue, then turned and walked out, leaving me alone with the fading embers of our shared past.
The next morning, the mansion buzzed with activity. Party planners moved about with clipboards, arranging flowers, tables, and decorations in ways that made my stomach twist. By midday, the truth became painfully clear: the setup was almost identical to Camila’s lavish birthday from two months prior.
And then she appeared. Every step of hers screamed control. A sleek red dress hugged her figure, her artificially sweet fragrance drifting across the room and pricking my nerves.
“I hope you like it,” she said with a deliberately saccharine smile, voice dripping with feigned warmth. “I chose every detail myself. Thought it might suit your… taste.”