Simp No More, Thanks

Somehow, I ended up outside the amusement park.

The same one where Shayne and I had our first date.

Memories hit like a sucker punch.

At eighteen, he won me a giant stuffed bear right here.

At twenty, we came back every year like it was our thing.

"Woof!" Pudding barked, yanking me out of the nostalgia spiral.

I looked up.

Right under the Ferris wheel stood a full-blown pink floral castle, balloons swaying like it was straight out of a rom-com.

It was the proposal setup—I'd imagined it a thousand times.

My chest tightened. I took a step closer, like my body was moving without permission.

Dead center in the crowd: Shayne, down on one knee in a sharp suit.

And in front of him, glowing in white dress—Vanessa.

I froze.

My phone buzzed with a calendar alert: [Eight-Year Anniversary Today.]

What a freaking joke.

He used our anniversary... my dream proposal spot... to propose to my ex–best friend.

The Chat Feed lit up like a slot machine:

[Ley, don't look! It's all a setup!]

[Vanessa told Shay her parents were pressuring her to get married. She begged him to fake it!]

[This was supposed to be YOUR proposal, not hers!]

A setup?

Please.

Shayne never lifted a finger unless he wanted to.

This? He agreed to.

Loud and clear.

I let out a bitter laugh, spun on my heel, and headed straight for the hotel.

No drama. No tears. Just me and my suitcase, already packed.

I rolled it to the airport in silence.

Pudding padded along beside me, unusually quiet—like he knew.

Security, check-in, done.

I sat at the gate, killing time on my phone.

Then—bam.

Vanessa's post popped up on my feed:

[Finally said yes at twenty-eight.]

Attached: a shot of her hand flaunting the ring.

The ring.

The exact one I'd stared at with Shayne in that shop window. Twice.

My face didn't even twitch. I gave it a like.

Phone buzzed. Unknown number.

I picked up.

Shayne's voice came through, all smug and sure of himself.

"Leyla, I KNOW you're jealous. You finally gave in, huh? This is your shot—apologize, mean it, and maybe I'll forgive you."

I didn't say a word.

Then—loudspeaker in the background:

[Passenger Leyla Landon, please proceed to Gate 12 for flight MV1234.]

Silence.

Then his voice cracked like thunder. "Leyla?!"

Glass shattered.

"Which airport are you at? Answer me!"

I could hear him running, breath heaving, panic rising.

"I'm ordering you—tell me where you are. NOW."

The Chat Feed was melting down:

[Shay's spiraling!]

[He's wrecking the place! I heard a limited-edition action figure bite it!]

Behind him, a voice pleaded, "Mr. Raffield, the acquisition meeting—"

"Get out!" Shayne shouted. "Cancel everything!"

Tires screeched. He must've bolted into the street.

"Can't you at least tell me where you're going?"

His voice cracked—fragile, raw, like I'd never heard it before.

Boarding call again.

Still didn't speak.

Just hit 'end.'

Then, right before blocking his number for good, I heard it—

"Leyla—!"