Roommates With Benefits Until I Met His Real Girlfriend

I don't remember how I got home.

I let myself in with my key, and the motion-sensor light in the entryway flickered on, illuminating the matching slippers we kept side-by-side—a ridiculous, glaring sight.

The Italian leather sofa we'd picked out together in the living room, the white roses I'd arranged on the dining table, and on the balcony, the mint and basil I had so carefully tended, now thriving... every single object was a silent mockery of my foolishness.

I didn't turn on the lights. I felt my way to the sofa, curled into a ball, and buried my face in my knees.

I don't know how much time passed before I heard the lock turn.

The living room lights flashed on, so bright they stung my eyes.

Ethan was home.

He was humming an off-key tune as he took off his Tom Ford suit jacket and tossed it onto the sofa. When he saw me, his expression was blank, devoid of the guilt or awkwardness I'd expected after the gala.

"Why are you sitting here in the dark? You scared me," he said, loosening his tie as he walked toward the bathroom. "I'm going to shower first. I reek of alcohol."

I watched his back. How could he be so casual?

It was as if the three years we'd spent together, all those intimate days and nights, were nothing but a meaningless dream.

After his shower, Ethan strolled out with a towel slung low on his hips, water trickling down the hard planes of his abs.

He smelled of the Aesop body wash we always used.

He dried his hair as he walked straight toward my bedroom.

Then, as I watched, he pulled back the covers of my bed with practiced ease, preparing to lie down.

In that instant, the humiliation that had been simmering all night finally boiled over.

"What are you doing!" I rushed over and shoved him with all my strength.

Ethan stumbled, then turned back, his face a mask of shocked, uncomprehending innocence.

"What am I doing?" His brows furrowed tightly. "Chloe, what's with the attitude now?"

"Ethan, this is my bed," I said, my voice trembling as uncontrollably as my hands.

"I know it's your bed." His expression was one of pure entitlement as he took a step toward me. "So?"

"You're getting engaged!" I practically screamed.

He finally seemed to understand, but his expression only grew more contemptuous and impatient.

"My engagement isn't until next month," he said, reaching out to stroke my face like he used to. I flinched away in disgust.

His hand froze mid-air, and his face hardened. "That doesn't mean we have to stop sleeping together. You enjoy it just as much as I do, don't you?"