Leaving The Guy Who Loved Only Himself

Today is my last day in this city.

Perhaps the weather, too, felt the weight of goodbye. A cold front had swept in overnight, and the wind now bit through coats and scarves with a practiced indifference. People on the streets hurried past, wrapped so tightly they resembled something out of a deli freezer—bundled, muted, waiting to be shelved or sold. Every breath I took became a fleeting white cloud, disappearing before it could mean anything.

It seemed appropriate. I was leaving. And things like this—the cold, the fog on your lips, the finality of silence—should have a proper ending.

So I called Scott.

He didn't pick up the first time. Or the second. On the third try, someone finally answered, but his voice was laced with irritation.

"You've got some nerve calling me."

The fragile calm I'd spent the whole morning piecing together shattered in an instant. I froze.

"What's your problem?" I asked, my voice sharper than intended. "Why the hell can't I call you?"

Whatever pretense we'd maintained—whatever strained civility had remained—was gone now.

He scoffed, accusatory. "When did you start pulling this kind of dirty stunt? Chloe is alone in this city, completely helpless, and you still had to go after her? What kind of person are you?"

I blinked, stunned. Then I understood.

Another performance. Another one of Chloe's little games.

So much for saying goodbye with dignity. That hope had already crumbled.

"You feeling guilty now?" he pressed. "She could've been crippled, do you even realize that? She fell from the stairs. Are you proud of yourself?"

Funny. I hadn't expected her to go that far—not to injure herself just to win.

The more he lashed out, the quieter I became.

"You've known me for years," I said. "You really think I'm capable of that?"

His voice dropped, low and bitter. "I used to know you. But ever since she showed up, you've changed. I let it slide when you made things difficult for her behind my back. But now? This is too far."

Then came the ultimatum.

"If you still want to stay in the company, get to the hospital. Kneel down and apologize. Otherwise, pack your things and get out."

I laughed.

And once I started, I couldn't stop. It was quiet at first, then it cracked around the edges, and something warm slid from the corner of my eye.

"So this is what I get," I said, "for helping you build the company. You're using it to threaten me now?"

He hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice had softened.

"I'm trying to save you. This is for your own good."

For my own good.

If it had really been for my good, he wouldn't have strung me along for ten years. He would've married me. He would've chosen me.

But I was no longer that naive twenty-something who believed in staying just because she was asked to wait.

I was thirty now.

And it was time to think about myself.

He kept going, the anger rising again. "If you weren't someone who made contributions to the company, I'd have fired you already. You—"

"Scott," I said suddenly, cutting him off.

He stopped. "What?"

I cleared my throat. The absurdity of it struck me—saying goodbye in such a way. So clumsy. So loud.

But it had to be done.

"We're done," I said calmly. "Let's break up."

There was a beat of silence.

Then he exploded.

"This is how you handle things? Are you serious? You think you can threaten me like this? Don't flatter yourself! You want to leave? Fine, get lost! I won't stop you!"

I didn't wait for him to finish the rant. I ended the call.

The screen dimmed. The connection was gone. He probably stared at his phone for a long time, disbelieving. But I was already pulling my suitcase into the airport terminal.

The plane to New York was boarding. I handed over my ticket, stepped through the gate, and didn't look back.

Since I said goodbye, I figured I couldn't be accused of leaving without a word.

The airport was mostly empty—quiet in a way that felt almost deliberate. I made my way to my seat in first class and sat down, my hands resting on my lap.

There was no visible bump yet. My stomach still looked the same. But I laid my palm over it anyway, gently. As if it could hear me.

There was life in there.

A small, growing life. One I had to protect now.

Motherhood, I thought, would be the next chapter.

And the thought made me smile, almost involuntarily.

As I sat there, lost in that fragile little dream, a tall man slipped into the seat beside me. He reached for my hand and intertwined his fingers with mine.

"So," he said, "you think the baby will look more like you, or me?"