Choosing the One Who Was Always There

Emma had posted a photo with the caption, "Starting a new chapter!"

She was leaning against a white wall, posing for a selfie. Behind her hung an abstract painting—one I had personally bought at a Sotheby's auction for 30 thousand dollars.

That painting hung in my apartment in Bellemont District.

My blood ran cold. Still, logic tried to reassure me—Matthew couldn't have done something that outrageous.

The next morning, Matthew showed up right on time.

"So, who were you helping move last night?" I asked casually as I climbed into the car.

"My college roommate. His lease was up, and he needed a hand relocating," he replied without hesitation.

"What a coincidence. Emma moved yesterday too. She didn't ask for your help?"

"Nope," he said, eyes on the road. "Pretty sure she hired movers. Trust fund girls don't usually call their friends for manual labor."

His tone was even and convincing. I let my suspicion simmer down for now.

…

On Saturday morning, I carried a new set of curtains from Bergdorf Goodman, ready to do a little redecorating. "Let's swing by the apartment in Bellemont District. I got some new decorations I want to put up."

Matthew froze for half a second.

"It's scorching today. How about a picnic at Crown Park instead?"

"It's November in Udrana City. It's not exactly picnic weather."

He grabbed my hand. "Or... how about lunch at Bellamy, followed by a show at the Haven Arts Theater? Just the two of us?"

Bellamy was a Michelin three-star restaurant, where the average meal cost over 500 dollars per person. Matthew usually hesitated to spend even 50 dollars on dinner, let alone 500.

"Matthew, that place requires a three-month reservation."

"I… I've got a friend there. He can get us in," he said quickly. "Darling, we haven't had a proper date in ages."

I smiled and let him run with it.

The lunch bill came to 1,200 dollars. When I saw his hand trembling as he signed the bill, I almost laughed.

At 10:00 pm, after confirming he had driven off in his Mercedes, I called an Uber straight to my apartment in Bellemont District.

Standing at the door of my apartment, I entered the keypad code. "Access denied."

I tried the code a few more times, but the door still wouldn't open.

Someone had changed the passcode to my apartment. Thankfully, I always kept a spare key in my purse.

The moment I pushed the door open, I froze.

The minimalist aesthetic I had so carefully curated had been completely destroyed. A cheap faux-fur throw was draped over my Eames lounge chair. My Bang & Olufsen speakers were covered in Hello Kitty stickers.

Takeout boxes were piled across the imported Belvarian marble dining table like some kind of trash altar.

The abstract painting was still on the wall—but now surrounded by a collage of Emma's selfies.

I pushed open the master bedroom door and found Emma lounging on my 80-dollar Hastens mattress, wrapped in the custom linen bedding I had custom-made in Parisvale.

She was startled awake, but instead of panicking, she looked pissed.

"What the hell, Sophie? Ever heard of knocking? This is trespassing."

I took a deep breath, doing everything in my power not to lunge across the room and tear her apart.

"Emma, get a grip. This is my apartment."

"Matthew said I could stay here. So technically, it's mine now. He let me move in, so you don't just get to barge in whenever you feel like it. Didn't your mother teach you anything about respecting people's privacy?"