When My Boyfriend Chose Her Over My Broken Body

The apartment was quiet when I got back. Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The kind that pressed against my ears until they rang.

I locked the door behind me and dropped my keys on the counter. They clattered too loud. Everything felt too loud now. My arm throbbed where the bandage covered the gash from Ashton's garage door. I peeled back the edge of the gauze and looked at the wound. It wasn't deep enough for stitches, but it would scar.

I walked to the bathroom and sat on the cold tile floor. The chill seeped through my jeans. I pulled out my phone and opened my photo gallery. I didn't mean to. My thumb just moved on its own, scrolling back through weeks and months of pictures I'd saved without thinking.

There was Ashton at the spring gala, his arm draped over Kimora's shoulders while she leaned into him, laughing at something only they understood. I was three feet away in that photo, cut off at the edge of the frame. There was another from a car meet last month—Ashton crouched beside his McLaren, Kimora perched on the hood in a sundress, his hand resting casually on her ankle. I'd taken that picture. He'd asked me to.

I kept scrolling. There was the video I'd never meant to see, the one burned into my brain now. My own face on his TV screen while his friends made comments I couldn't unhear. And then there was yesterday—the way he'd shoved me away from the Pagani like I was a threat, inspected the paint with more care than he'd ever shown my bleeding arm, then laughed when Kimora's stilettos scratched the same surface.

My thumb found the inside of my wrist and pressed down hard. The pressure centered me. Kept me from shaking.

I opened my contacts. Titus's name sat at the top, pinned there since I'd left for this trial. One call. That's all it would take. He'd have a jet at Teterboro in two hours. He'd mobilize the legal team, the PR machine, the entire apparatus of the Chapman name. He'd been waiting for this call since the day I walked away from the penthouse.

My finger hovered over his name.

But I didn't press it.

Because Ashton loved me. He had to. People didn't beg you to make intimate videos unless they loved you. They didn't introduce you to their father unless you mattered. They didn't keep you around for eight months unless there was something real underneath all the rest.

He just didn't know how to show it. That's what I told myself. He grew up with Julian Rivera, a man who measured affection in quarterly earnings. Ashton learned to love cars because cars didn't ask for things he couldn't give. And Kimora—she was just his friend. His childhood buddy. The girl who made him laugh.

I could be patient. I could teach him. I could show him what real love looked like, and eventually he'd reflect it back.

One more chance.

I closed Titus's contact and set my phone on the tile beside me. The screen went dark. The bathroom mirror reflected a girl I barely recognized—soft and small and willing to disappear.

I pressed my thumb harder against my wrist until the ache in my arm faded into the background.

---

Two nights later, we met Ashton's circle at a rooftop bar in Tribeca. The kind of place with Edison bulbs strung overhead and a view of the Hudson that cost forty dollars a cocktail. I wore a simple black dress, the kind that didn't compete for attention. Ashton arrived late with Kimora, both of them laughing about something that had happened on the drive over.

We took a long table near the railing. I sat beside Ashton, my hand resting on the table between us. He didn't take it.

The conversation turned to cars within five minutes. It always did. Someone mentioned a vintage Porsche auction. Someone else argued about the best track for amateur racing. I listened and sipped water, my wine glass untouched.

Kimora leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her eyes bright. "You know, Averie's not really into car culture," she said with a warm, easy smile. "Which is totally fine. Not everyone gets it."

I felt the table's attention shift toward me.

"She'd probably be happier at a book club or something," Kimora continued, laughing lightly. "Somewhere quieter. Less... intense."

Ashton grinned and nodded. "She's not a car girl. But that's fine—I don't need her to be."

The words landed soft, but they cut deep. I sat very still. My thumb found my wrist under the table and pressed down until my pulse throbbed against the pressure.

No one asked what I thought. No one asked if I wanted to be included. They just smiled and moved on, the conversation flowing around me like I was a stone in a river.

Kimora caught my eye across the table. Her smile didn't waver. It was perfect. Warm. Impossible to challenge without looking petty.

I looked away first.

Later, when Ashton dropped me off at my apartment, he kissed my forehead and said, "You were quiet tonight."

"I was tired," I said.

He nodded and drove away.

I stood on the sidewalk and watched his taillights disappear. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Titus: *Still breathing?*

I typed back: *Fine.*

He didn't reply. He never did when I lied.