1 Two days before our engagement party, my fiancé, Christian, was on one knee, adjusting the hem of my dress when his fingers brushed against my ankle. “Lorna,” he murmured, his touch light, “how come I’ve never seen you in heels? You have such beautiful feet.” I was busy fussing with the waistline of my gown in the mirror. “I can’t get used to them,” I said dismissively. “They hurt when I walk.” “You should try. They’d be perfect with this mermaid dress.” His palm slid up the line of my leg, pausing at the soft hollow behind my knee. “Red-soled stilettos. The kind that gives you a flash of red when you walk, that makes your hips sway… You’d look absolutely stunning.” I met his gaze in the mirror. It was intense, focused. “Since when did you become a fashion expert?” Christian’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting away from mine. “I, uh, flipped through a few magazines.” I said nothing. He moved closer, his fingers gently tipping my chin up. “What, you don’t believe me?” His touch was warm, but his gaze flickered again, just for an instant. “Of course I do,” I said, forcing a bright smile as I poked him playfully in the chest. “I’m just surprised that Christian Price, the esteemed attorney, has time for this kind of research.” He leaned in and kissed my forehead. “For you, my love, I’d learn anything.” He pulled away. “I’ll go get you a glass of water.” He turned and left the room, leaving his phone behind on the vanity. I hesitated for a moment before picking it up. My fingers typed in the password—my birthday, the same it had always been. It was the first time in all our years together that I had ever looked through his phone. The call logs, messages, and photo gallery were all spotless. Clean. A wave of relief washed over me, and I chided myself for being so suspicious. But as my thumb hovered over the search bar, some dark instinct took over. I typed in "red-soled stilettos." The search pulled up a blocked contact. The profile picture was blank, the username a single word: “Stella.” It was impossible to unblock and add her from his phone. I memorized the contact ID and switched to my burner account on my own phone. After a quick search, a profile with a blurry side-profile picture popped up. I sent a friend request. She accepted almost instantly. A message came through: “A fan?” My heart seized, and the blood ran cold in my veins. “Yeah,” I typed, my hands starting to tremble. “I saw you in a magazine. A friend of a friend gave me your contact.” She didn’t seem to question it. “Haha, thanks, babe! So sweet of you. Which friend was it? Doesn’t matter, welcome! ” “You know, Mr. Henderson,” I lied, pulling a name out of thin air. Sweat beaded on my palms. She sent back a cute GIF. “Ooh, say no more! That explains it. Thanks for the love! ” After a short exchange of pleasantries, I clicked on her profile feed. The most recent posts were professionally edited selfies and photos from events. The woman in them had vibrant, sharp features and an enviably lean figure. The backdrops were a rotation of high-end restaurants, backstage at fashion shows, and boutique gyms. A model, for sure. I kept scrolling down, my thumb moving faster and faster, until I stopped on a post from a week ago. It was a picture of her back, the pose languid but powerfully seductive. She was on her tiptoes, showing off the flash of a familiar red sole. This photo, unlike the others, had a caption. “Thank you for the gift, Mr. C. ” Mr. C? A phantom hand clenched around my heart, squeezing the air from my lungs. I clamped a hand over my mouth, terrified I would scream, but a broken, choked sob escaped anyway. Suddenly, everything clicked into place. The mysterious luxury brand receipt I’d found in his coat pocket last week. His recent string of late nights “at the office.” Even the hushed phone call on the balcony two nights ago—the one he’d abruptly ended when he saw I was awake, claiming it was an urgent case. So this was the truth. Ten years. Ten years we had been together, and we were finally on the verge of making it official. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—believe that the man who had loved and cherished me for a decade would betray me. But a cold, clear voice in the back of my mind whispered the undeniable truth: My fiancé was in love with another woman. 2 My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone. Plink. A single tear hit the screen. I swiped it away and opened my text messages, finding the credit card notification from the day he bought the shoes. A charge for $2,200 from a high-end shoe boutique downtown. The exact same amount as the receipt I’d found. The sound of footsteps approached the door. I quickly locked his phone and placed it back on the vanity, exactly where he’d left it. “Sorry, did I take too long?” Christian asked, walking in with a glass of water. In his other hand, he held a tell-tale orange gift box. His smile was warm, intoxicating. “Guess what I got you?” He opened the box to reveal a new designer handbag, a model that was notoriously hard to find. “An early engagement present. Do you like it?” Any other day, I would have thrown my arms around his neck and playfully scolded him for spending so much money. But now, the gesture felt like a grotesque joke. “Yes,” I managed to say. “It’s beautiful.” He smiled, ruffling my hair. “I’ll get you an even better gift for the wedding. More beautiful than this. You can start looking forward to it now.” I stared at him, a raw, acidic pain rising in my chest. God, how I wished the last ten minutes had been a nightmare. The next day, I stood in the security office of the downtown shoe boutique, my nails digging so deeply into my palms that they almost broke the skin. On the monitor, Christian had his arm wrapped around Stella’s waist, his head bent low to listen as she whispered in his ear. He took the stiletto she’d been trying on and knelt before her, gently sliding it onto her foot. The salesclerk fawned over them as he casually took Stella’s purse, waiting patiently while she admired herself in the mirror. After paying, she spun around on her tiptoes, her skirt flaring out around her. Christian reached out to steady her, his eyes burning with an intensity I hadn’t seen in years. I glanced at the date stamp on the footage. It was the night I’d stayed at the lab until dawn, rushing to finish a project so I could take my wedding leave early. He had texted me a picture of a coffee cup on his desk at the law firm, telling me he was buried in work. It was all a lie. “That gentleman is a regular,” one of the security guards muttered to the other. “Always comes in with that lady, spends ages while she tries on shoes.” “That model,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Do you have it in stock?” The salesclerk, who had been called into the room, blinked in surprise. “We do, yes, but the price…” “I’ll take them all.” I swiped my card and walked out of the store with six large gift boxes. When I got home, Christian was in the kitchen, humming as he stirred a pot of soup. “You’re back!” he called out. He stepped out of the kitchen, and his eyes fell on the small mountain of shoe boxes at my feet. His smile froze. “What… what is all this?” he asked, his voice tight. I calmly opened one of the boxes, pulled out a red-soled stiletto, and dangled it in front of him. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” I said, a razor-sharp smile on my lips. “The clerk told me they’re the most popular style.” His face went pale. “Why did you suddenly buy so many?” “Suddenly?” I tilted my head. “Aren’t you the one who suggested I try them?” His mouth opened, then closed. He looked away, his fingers nervously tracing the rim of the soup bowl on the counter. A suffocating silence filled the room. I stood up and grabbed my coat. “Something’s come up at the lab. I have to go in.” “Now?” He looked up, his eyes wide with panic. “But the engagement party is tomorrow.” “There’s an issue with the data,” I said, my tone flat as I walked out the door. “It’ll be an all-nighter. Don’t wait up.” I got in my car, turned the key, and slammed my foot on the gas. My destination wasn’t the lab. It was the location Stella had tagged in her social media post half an hour ago: a runway show for an indie designer. 3 The house lights dimmed as the final round of applause echoed through the venue. I stood in the shadows, watching Stella get swept backstage by a crowd of admirers. She was even more dazzling in person, her auburn curls bouncing with every step, her waist as fluid as a ribbon. She had a pair of eyes that could melt stone. After the crowd dispersed, I overheard two crew members talking. “Stella seemed off her game tonight. Almost twisted her ankle on the catwalk.” “Heard she’s having relationship trouble…” I followed her up to the rooftop terrace. She was leaning against the railing, a cigarette smoldering between her fingers, its cherry a tiny red star in the dark. “Stella?” I asked, feigning nervousness as I approached. “Can I… can I get a picture? I’m a huge fan.” She glanced at me, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “A female fan?” She waved me over. “Sure, why not.” After we took the photo, I looked at her with faux concern. “Are you okay? You seem a little down.” Her expression clouded over. She stubbed out her cigarette on the railing. “Whatever. It’s not like I have a date tonight. Might as well talk.” She took a long swig from a flask she’d pulled from her purse. “You know,” she began, her voice laced with bitterness, “I really thought he’d show up tonight.” She let out a harsh laugh. “Men. Every single one of them is a piece of trash.” She took another drink and launched into her story. “I met him after a show. He sent me a bouquet of white roses, said he was captivated by my presence on the runway.” “And then?” I prompted, my own voice a stranger to my ears. “And then?” She smirked, a sly, knowing look in her eyes. “The second time we met, he took me to a private vineyard. Waited until I was a little tipsy, then kissed me. Told me he’d never met a woman as exciting as me.” My heart gave a painful thud. I remembered that night. Christian hadn’t come home, telling me he was pulling an all-nighter at the firm to prep for a major case. “Not long after, he posted a picture of an engagement ring on his social media. His, and some other woman’s.” “I knew he had a fiancée. He said she was sweet, like a little lamb, but totally boring. Spends all her time cooped up in a lab.” “It was a mutual arrangement. I needed his connections to climb the ladder.” “I’ve seen a million guys like him. Two-faced. The second his fiancée was out of town, he invited me over to his place.” “Our first time was in their marital bed.” “He tried to act all innocent afterward. Said he regretted it, that we should stop seeing each other. But all I had to do was send one text, and he’d come running back.” “He’s an animal in bed, completely wild. Refuses to use a condom. And then he has the nerve to talk about ‘not wanting to betray his fiancée.’ But the moment I wrap my arms around his neck, he forgets everything.” “Lately, he’s been trying to play the devoted partner. Says he has to do right by his fiancée, but he can’t bear to break things off with me. Please.” She snorted. “Oh, and these shoes? He bought them for me. Said they make me look like a total siren.” Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, quickly wiped the corners of her eyes, and her bright, dazzling smile snapped back into place. “Alright, little fan, duty calls. See you around.” I ducked back into the shadows of a stairwell corner and watched as she ran into a familiar embrace. Christian. He was wearing the deep gray trench coat I’d bought him for his birthday. A bouquet of white roses sat on the hood of his car. He looked so gentle, and so utterly alien. I raised my phone, my hand trembling as I hit record. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her—a deep, passionate, lingering kiss that seemed to go on forever. In that moment, my heart didn't just break; it felt like it was being shredded by a blender. The pain was so intense I had to double over. Tears streamed down my face, hot and uncontrollable, and my whole body shook. I bit down hard on the back of my hand, swallowing my sobs. After the pain, all that was left was a hollow, crushing exhaustion. They were long gone. I collapsed onto the cold concrete, staring blankly at the moon. Tomorrow was our engagement party, the day we had been waiting for, for so long. Ten years of love, and only now was I seeing the man I was supposed to marry for who he truly was. What would I tell my parents? How could I possibly explain this? I hated myself for being so blind, for wasting a decade of my life on a lie. Suddenly, my phone buzzed with a notification. An email confirmation. Without a second of hesitation, I had added my name to the list. A solo trip. Far away. With a monumental effort, I pushed myself up and staggered away from the rooftop, leaving the city lights behind me. 4 I pushed open the door to our apartment. The entryway light was still on. A sticky note was plastered to the refrigerator. Urgent case at the firm, won’t be back tonight. I promise I’ll be there on time tomorrow. Love you. The words seemed to mock me, their cheerful cursive a testament to my own stupidity. Liar. I ripped the note off the fridge and tore it into a thousand tiny pieces. I walked into the bedroom and pulled out a thick stack of faded love letters from the back of the closet—the ones he used to slip into my textbooks every day in college. I took out the photo albums filled with pictures of our travels, him always hugging me from behind, his chin resting on my head as he grinned like an idiot. From the depths of the wardrobe, I pulled out the shirt he wore on our first date, the one with my initials embroidered on the cuff. And the scarf I’d spent weeks knitting for him… I gathered them all in my arms, carried them to the bathroom, and dumped them into the tub. Then I flicked a lighter. The flame roared to life, a hungry beast devouring every last trace of "Christian and Lorna." Next was our marital bed. He had picked it out himself, in the exact shade of blue I loved. Now, the sight of it made me sick. I grabbed a pair of shears and started cutting, slicing the mattress and the duvet into ragged strips. Then I moved through the rest of the apartment, taking a hammer to anything and everything that held a memory of him. What was once our sanctuary was now a field of wreckage. I sat in the ruins of our life together, watching the sky slowly lighten outside the window. The sound of a key turning in the lock echoed through the silence. Christian pushed the door open, a smile on his face that quickly dissolved into a mask of horror. “Lorna, are you insane?!” he yelled, his voice cracking. “Do you have any idea what day it is? You’ve destroyed our home!” He rushed toward me. "Get dressed, now! Put on the gown, we can still make it!" I slapped his hand away. “The engagement is off.” “Stop screwing around, Lorna! The guests have been notified, our parents are already at the venue.” CRACK! I hurled one of the red-soled stilettos at his feet, then brought the hammer down on its heel with all my might. The heel snapped, and he flinched back as if he’d been struck himself. “What’s the matter?” I sneered. “Does this bring back a memory? Are you remembering kneeling to put it on her foot, or are you just tasting last night’s kiss?” Christian’s face went chalk-white, his lips trembling. “Lorna, please, let me explain…” “Shut up!” I grabbed the other shoe and threw it, hitting him square in the chest. He reached for my wrist, but I twisted away and slapped him across the face, so hard his head snapped to the side. He froze, clutching his cheek, a look of pure shock in his eyes. He’d never imagined his docile Lorna could be violent. I grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head up, forcing him to look at me. With my other hand, I used the sole of the shoe to strike him across the mouth, again and again. His face swelled instantly, and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his lip. He didn't fight back. He didn’t even struggle. He just let me do it. And I didn’t hold back. I was a cornered animal, venting every ounce of my fury on him. I didn’t stop until the shoe’s heel broke and my wrist ached. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. I scooped up a handful of the ashes from the bathtub and threw them in his face. He looked pathetic. Wrecked. Panting, I sank onto the sofa. Christian crawled toward me, blood and ash streaking down his chin, and wrapped his arms around my legs. “Lorna, I was just… I was confused for a moment…” His voice was a ragged whisper. “Ten years, Lorna. Can’t you forgive me just this once?” I laughed, a cold, bitter sound. “No. I have a thing about cleanliness.” “And once someone’s dirty,” I said, looking down at him with contempt, “they’re worthless to me.”
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