My Groom’s Mistress Wanted the Wedding I Paid For

I sat at my new desk in the SoHo office and opened my banking app. Three years of transactions loaded slowly, page after page of proof I'd been trying not to see.

I started a new spreadsheet. Gave it a name: Matias Castillo - Full Accounting.

The first column: Date. The second: Description. The third: Amount.

I went back to the beginning. September, three years ago. The month we moved in together—or rather, the month I started paying for the apartment he lived in while I kept my place in Brooklyn.

Rent supplement: $800. He said his stipend didn't cover the full amount in Manhattan. Said it was temporary.

I typed it in.

October: $800. November: $800. December: $800.

I kept scrolling. Kept typing.

February: MacBook Pro, $2,400. He needed it for his research. The old one kept crashing during video calls.

March: Conference registration, Boston, $450.

April: Car insurance, $180. May: $180. June: $180.

The numbers stacked up like bricks. Each one small enough to justify. Reasonable. What you do for someone you love.

August, last year: Wire transfer to Mrs. Castillo, $1,200. Dental work she said she couldn't afford. I sent it the same day she asked.

I scrolled faster. My hands stayed steady on the keyboard.

September: Graduation watch, $800.

October: Rent again. And again. And again.

January, this year: First wedding deposit. Venue: $8,000.

February: Catering deposit: $6,500.

March: Florist: $2,200. Photographer: $3,800. Band: $4,500.

I added a formula at the bottom. Watched the number calculate.

$47,340.

I stared at it. Forty-seven thousand, three hundred and forty dollars. That's what three years of love cost when the other person was keeping a ledger you didn't know existed.

I saved the file. Closed my laptop. Looked out the window at the buildings across the street.

I didn't feel sad. I felt clear.

My phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Derek Hsu.

*Hey. Can we talk?*

I picked up the phone. Waited.

Another text arrived ten seconds later.

*Matias told me what happened. I'm really sorry, T. Breakups are hard. But I think you're making this harder than it needs to be.*

I read it twice.

*He just wants to move forward. The venue thing—I get that you're hurt, but holding onto it isn't going to change anything. You're better than this.*

A third text.

*Be the bigger person. Don't let this get ugly.*

I set the phone down. Didn't reply. Didn't block him yet either. I just left it there, glowing on the desk, while I went back to work.

Two days later, I was locking up the warehouse in Sunset Park. It was almost seven. The street was quiet. I pulled my coat tighter and started walking toward the subway.

"Talia."

I stopped. Turned.

Matias stood ten feet away, hands in his pockets, shoulders squared. He looked like he'd been waiting.

"I just want to talk," he said. His voice was calm. Reasonable. "Like adults."

I turned back around and kept walking.

"Talia." Louder now. He followed. "Come on. Don't do this."

I didn't stop. Didn't look back. The subway entrance was half a block ahead.

"You're really going to be like this?" His footsteps got closer. Faster. "After everything we had, you'd really be this petty?"

I reached the top of the subway stairs. Started down.

"I gave you three years!" His voice echoed off the concrete. "I was good to you. I was there. And this is how you act? Over a venue?"

I swiped my MetroCard. Walked through the turnstile. Kept going.

"You don't want to make an enemy of me, Talia." His voice dropped. Harder now. "I'm trying to be reasonable. But if you keep this up—"

I stopped at the edge of the platform. Turned to face him.

He stood on the other side of the turnstile, breathing hard. His collar was crooked. His face was red.

I looked at him for a long moment. This man I'd carried. This man I'd loved.

"Don't contact me again," I said.

The train pulled into the station. The doors opened. I stepped inside.

Through the window, I watched him standing there as the train pulled away. He didn't move. Just stood there, hands still in his pockets, staring after me like he couldn't believe I'd actually left.

I sat down. Pulled out my phone. Opened my contacts and scrolled to Derek Hsu's name.

I blocked him.

Then I opened my email and started a new message. Subject line: Glasshouse Reservation - Confirmation of Retention.

I typed quickly. Precisely. Confirming that I would be keeping the May 20th reservation. That I had paid for it in full. That it was non-transferable. That any further contact regarding the matter would be considered harassment.

I sent it to the venue coordinator. CC'd my lawyer—the one I'd hired that morning.

Then I put my phone away and watched Brooklyn blur past the window.

Forty-seven thousand dollars. Three years. One spreadsheet.

I knew exactly what I'd paid. And I knew exactly what I was owed.

Nothing.

Because you can't get back what someone never intended to give.