My Fiancé Cheated While I Tried on Wedding Dresses

I didn’t take a cab home. I walked the forty blocks uptown in the freezing dusk. My legs moved on autopilot. My face was numb from the wind, but my mind was completely clear.

By the time I unlocked the door to our penthouse, it was past seven.

The apartment was warm and smelled of expensive cedarwood. Damon was sitting in the leather armchair by the floor-to-ceiling windows. He had a glass of bourbon in one hand and his phone in the other. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone. He looked powerful, rested, and handsome.

He didn't look up when I walked in. He just swiped his thumb across the screen.

"You were gone all afternoon," he said. His voice was level. "Your phone went straight to voicemail."

I didn't answer right away. I took off my coat and hung it in the front closet. I walked across the polished wood floor and stopped three feet in front of his chair.

"Did you tell Scottie?" I asked.

My voice was very low. It wasn't shaky, and I didn't shout. But the quiet words filled the huge living room.

Damon paused. His thumb stopped moving on his screen. He looked up, his dark eyes cool and steady.

"Tell her what?"

"About Westchester," I said. "Four years ago. The clinic. The paper gown. What the doctor said. The bathroom stall."

I watched his face closely. I looked for a flinch. A twitch of guilt. A flicker of shame.

There was nothing.

Damon didn't even blink. He took a slow sip of his bourbon. The ice cubes clinked against the crystal.

"She brought it up?" he asked. He sounded mildly annoyed, like a manager dealing with a minor scheduling conflict.

"You told her," I said.

"We talk," Damon said simply. He leaned back, resting his arms on the leather chair. "People share things, Indie. It wasn't a state secret."

"It was my life," I whispered. "It was the worst day I ever lived through. I did it for you. Your father demanded it, and I let those people touch me because I loved you."

Damon sighed. It was a heavy, patient sound, like a father explaining basic math to a slow child.

"And I appreciated it," he said smoothly. "That’s why you’re here. That’s why you're wearing ten-thousand-dollar cashmere, Indie. But let’s look at reality for five seconds. Please."

He set his drink on the marble side table. Then he counted on his fingers.

"One: you don't have a college degree. You dropped out. Two: you haven't held a real job since I fought in the Bronx. Three: your entire social circle belongs to me. You don't have friends in this city. You don't have family anywhere. And four: every cent in your checking account is tied to my name."

He looked at me with genuine curiosity. There was no anger in his eyes. Just absolute, terrifying certainty.

"Where would you even go?" he asked softly. "What would you do? Sleep on a subway bench? Wash dishes in Queens?"

He shook his head and picked his phone back up.

"You’re upset right now. I get it. Go take a hot bath. Order whatever you want from room service downstairs. We have the charity gala on Friday, and I need you looking rested."

He went back to reading his screen. He dismissed me completely. He didn't even worry I might walk out the door. In his eyes, the cage door was wide open, but the bird had no wings.

I stood there for three seconds. Then I turned around and walked down the hallway to the master bedroom.

I closed the heavy oak door behind me and turned the lock.

The bedroom was dark. City lights poured through the sheer curtains, throwing gray squares across the king-sized bed.

I didn't turn on the lamps. I walked to the edge of the mattress and sat down.

My right hand rose automatically. My fingers found the jade pendant at my collarbone. I rubbed the cool, smooth surface between my thumb and forefinger. It was a habit I’d had since I was seven years old, sitting on the bunk bed of my first foster home.

The stone was hard and real. It was the only thing in this room that Damon hadn't bought.

*Where would you even go?*

His words echoed in my ears.

For the first time in seven years, I let myself think about the answer.

I thought about Paris.

I stood up and walked to the closet. Behind the rows of designer dresses Damon had picked out for me, there was a high shelf. Tucked in the far back corner sat a single cardboard shoebox.

I pulled it down and set it on the bed.

Inside was a thick, beat-up art history textbook from my college days. I opened the front cover.

A folded sheet of cream paper slipped out.

My hands shook as I unfolded it. The creases were yellowed and fragile from age. The official crest of the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris sat at the top, stamped in dark blue ink.

*We are pleased to offer you a full merit scholarship for the upcoming academic year...*

Seven years ago, I held this letter in our freezing basement studio. Damon had come home with cracked ribs and blood on his knuckles from an underground fight. He had wept into my lap. He told me he would die if I left him. He begged me to stay.

So I stayed. I tucked the letter away. I washed his bloody shirts, cooked cheap rice on a hot plate, and stopped painting.

I looked at the yellowed paper under the city lights.

Damon thought he owned the sky, the cage, and me. He thought I was helpless because I had chosen to love him.

He had no idea who I was before I met him.

And he was about to find out.