Ethan retreated behind his desk, creating a physical barrier as if he were preparing to enter a hostile business negotiation.
— I never intended for this to happen, Jessica. Feelings can change. I was going to tell you… after.
— After what? After we were married? After our honeymoon?
— I was trying to find the right moment.
His voice had the same practiced, detached smoothness he employed during challenging client calls. The lunch bag slipped from my grasp and fell to the floor.
— I trusted you. Both of you.
Ashley, at least, had the grace to appear momentarily uncomfortable.
— It just happened, Jess. We tried to fight it.
— Don’t call me Jess.
The childhood diminutive felt like a fresh violation.
— And things don’t ‘just happen’ for four months. You both made choices. Every single secret phone call. Every lie. Every single time you looked me in the eye knowing exactly what you were doing.
Ethan stabbed at the intercom button on his phone.
— Brenda, could you please come in here?
Moments later, his secretary appeared, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor.
— Please escort Ms. Miller out. She’s… overwrought.
— I can escort myself out.
I said, my dignity somehow miraculously holding even as my world shattered.
— You two deserve each other.
The tears finally came as the elevator doors slid shut. By the time I stumbled to my car in the parking garage, I was gasping for air between convulsive sobs. The drive home is a complete void in my memory. I only recall calling my mother from my apartment, where I had collapsed onto the cold tile of the bathroom floor, my cries rendering me incoherent.
My mother and father were there within an hour, using their emergency key to let themselves in when I was incapable of answering the door. My mother enveloped me in her arms as I recounted the entire sordid story, while my father paced the length of the living room, his face growing darker with every detail I revealed.
— I’ll kill him.
He growled, one hand clutching his chest.
— Both of them.
— Robert, your blood pressure.
My mother cautioned, though her own expression was a mask of cold fury.
The days that followed were a blur of profound pain. My mother took on the task of contacting vendors to dismantle the wedding arrangements, while my father dealt with the financial repercussions. When I finally worked up the courage to return the engagement ring, I left it with the doorman at Ethan’s building, unable to stomach the thought of seeing him.
I discovered that Ashley had already seamlessly moved her belongings into the apartment. Her clothes filled the closets, and framed photos of her family had replaced the ones of mine on the bookshelves. Ethan’s email detailing the division of our shared assets was brutally efficient; he mentioned that Ashley had been instrumental in helping him catalog my remaining possessions.
The betrayal, I soon learned, was even more insidious than I had imagined. Mutual acquaintances confided that Ashley and Ethan had been meeting in secret whenever I had to work late or travel for my job. She had pursued him with a single-minded determination, manufacturing excuses to be alone with him, sending him a constant stream of texts and photos when I wasn’t there.
The scandal tore through our social circle like a wildfire. Some friends rallied to my side, while others, mindful of Ethan’s influence in the business world, sided with him. A few confessed that they had observed the inappropriate flirtation between Ethan and Ashley but had chosen not to intervene. Their cowardice was a secondary wound, stinging almost as sharply as the initial betrayal.
My mother was my salvation during those bleak months. She brought me meals when I had no appetite, patiently listened to my tear-filled tirades, and stayed over on nights when the crushing loneliness felt unbearable. She made several valiant attempts to broker a peace between Ashley and me, organizing family dinners that invariably dissolved into strained silence or escalated into venomous arguments.
During one such disastrous meal, Ashley finally broke after I ignored her request to pass the salt.
— You always had everything handed to you first, Jessica! The best grades, the promotion, the perfect apartment. For once in my life, I got something before you did!
— My fiancé was not a trophy to be won.
I retorted, my voice trembling with rage.
— He was the man I loved. The man I trusted.
My mother set her fork down with a sharp click.
— Ashley Carol Miller, you will apologize to your sister this instant.
— For what? For being honest? Ethan chose me. He loves me now.
I pushed my chair back and threw my napkin onto my plate.
— I can’t do this anymore, Mom. I’m sorry.
That was the last family dinner I ever attended when Ashley was present.
The immense stress of the feud between his daughters aggravated my father’s existing heart condition, necessitating a change in his medication and more frequent visits to his cardiologist. My mother seemed to age years in a matter of months, the lines of worry deepening around her eyes as she fought a losing battle to hold her fractured family together.
Six months after uncovering the affair, I reached my nadir. My therapist officially diagnosed me with clinical depression and prescribed medication. My performance at work plummeted as I found it impossible to concentrate, culminating in the loss of a major client after I broke down sobbing during a critical presentation. My boss gently suggested I take a leave of absence, but I knew that remaining in New York, a city where every street corner held a painful memory, would only prolong my agony.
When a marketing director position became available in our company’s Chicago office, I applied without a moment’s hesitation. The interview was a surprising success, my raw desperation for a new start likely being misinterpreted as professional zeal. Two weeks later, the job offer arrived.
My mother helped me pack up my apartment, her hands carefully swaddling photos and keepsakes in protective layers of tissue paper. As we methodically sorted through the detritus of my former life, she finally addressed the topic that had been hanging unspoken between us.
— Do you think you will ever be able to forgive Ashley?
She asked, her voice gentle as she sealed a cardboard box with packing tape.
I kept my focus on folding a stack of sweaters.
— I don’t know, Mom. Not right now. Maybe not ever.
— Forgiveness isn’t about acknowledging that they deserve it.
She said softly.
— It’s about setting yourself free.
— I am setting myself free. I’m moving to Chicago.
My mother sat down on the edge of the bed and took my hands in hers.
— Running away from the problem isn’t the same as healing from it, sweetheart.
Tears welled in my eyes.
— I need the distance to even think about healing. Can you understand that?
She nodded, pulling me into a fierce embrace.
— Just promise me you’ll call. Promise you won’t shut us out.
— I promise.
Saying goodbye to my parents at the airport was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. My father held me in a hug that lasted longer than usual, his voice thick with emotion.
— You go out there and show them, kiddo. You build a life for yourself that’s so damned good they’ll choke on their regret.
My first few weeks in Chicago were a haze of loneliness and self-doubt. My new studio apartment felt cold and impersonal. I threw myself into my work, logging long hours to avoid the silence of my empty home, surviving on takeout eaten at my desk before collapsing into bed, exhausted, each night.
Then came the phone call that felt like a fresh twist of the knife. My mother called on a Sunday morning, her voice laced with caution.
— Jessica, I thought you should hear this from me before you see it on social media. Ashley and Ethan were married yesterday.
It had been a small, civil ceremony, but thanks to Ethan’s business connections, it was featured prominently in the society section of a New York magazine. The accompanying photograph showed them beaming on the courthouse steps, Ashley in a simple but elegant white dress, the engagement ring that was once mine glittering on her finger.
That night was my absolute lowest point. I drank an entire bottle of wine by myself, torturing myself by scrolling through old photos of Ethan and me, and cried until my eyes were swollen shut. I called in sick the following day, utterly incapable of facing the world.
But in the depths of that despair, something inside me shifted. As the first rays of morning light crept through the blinds, I made a solemn vow. This would be the last day of my life that I would grant them the power to dictate my happiness. I systematically deleted every digital trace of Ethan from my life, blocked both him and Ashley on every social media platform, and took a long, hot shower, visualizing my pain and anger washing away down the drain.
Back at the office, I attacked my projects with a newfound ferocity. My boss took notice of my renewed dedication and began assigning me to our most important clients. I quickly cultivated a reputation for innovative thinking and unwavering commitment, earning the respect of my new colleagues.
My first genuine friend in Chicago was Olivia Chen, our company’s HR director. She invited me to her book club, and through her, I began to meet other professional women, slowly but surely weaving the fabric of a new social life. Olivia was perpetually trying to set me up on dates, but I politely rebuffed every offer, the very notion of romantic vulnerability still filling me with terror.
Several months into my new life, I was sent to a technology conference in San Diego to represent my firm. On the second night, at a formal dinner with prospective clients, I found myself seated next to Daniel Hayes, a successful tech investor and entrepreneur who had recently relocated from Seattle.
Daniel was the antithesis of Ethan in every conceivable way. Where Ethan had been ostentatious and slickly charming, Daniel was reserved and deeply authentic. He possessed a quiet confidence and an inquisitive nature that drew people to him without any need for theatrics. When he discussed his work, his passion was palpable, yet he was never boastful. At the end of the evening, he asked for my business card, and I gave it to him with no real expectation of hearing from him again.
To my astonishment, he sent me an email the very next morning, asking if I would be interested in continuing our discussion about digital marketing trends over coffee before the day’s sessions began.
Over the next three months, Daniel and I kept in professional touch. He referred several potential clients to my agency, and I, in turn, introduced him to my growing network of business contacts in Chicago. Olivia noticed our frequent working lunches and offered a knowing look.
— He’s into you, Jess. And it’s not just about business.
— We’re just colleagues.
I would insist.
— Colleagues don’t look at each other the way he looks at you.
Eventually, Daniel invited me to a dinner that was explicitly not work-related. I was consumed by anxiety, nearly canceling on him twice before I managed to force myself to go. Twenty minutes into the date, as we were discussing our favorite authors, I was blindsided by a full-blown panic attack. My hands began to tremble, my breathing grew ragged and shallow, and tears streamed down my face. Instead of reacting with embarrassment or annoyance, Daniel calmly moved from his chair to sit beside me in the booth, speaking in a low, soothing voice until my breathing evened out. He drove me home afterward without any pressure or probing questions.
