For three months, I’d been scouring the city like a woman possessed. Three months since Caleb, my supposedly broke, post-grad boyfriend, had vanished into the night air. I’d even taken a job as a courier, a delivery driver on a beat-up scooter, just for the excuse to crisscross every neighborhood, to peer down every alley, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. That’s how I ended up at The Sterling Gallery, delivering a rush document. And that’s how I saw him. Dressed in a suit so exquisitely tailored it probably cost more than my college tuition, looking utterly serene as he raised a paddle to bid on a piece of antique jewelry. Thirty-two million dollars. A stunning woman beside him, all shimmering hair and a killer smile, laughed lightly. "Still the last of the big spenders, Caleb." He gave her cheek a familiar, affectionate pinch. Someone nearby chimed in. "And he's got a soft heart, too. Finally cut ties with that little charity case he was slumming it with." Then, his gaze shifted. And it landed squarely on me. Everything descended into chaos. 1 "Twenty million." "Twenty-three." The bids volleyed back and forth, the auction hall electric with tension. I stood at the entrance, the whole scene laid out before me. A man in a sharp suit hurried over, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Thank God, you made it." I handed him the document folder with a practiced smile, my blue courier jacket feeling a size too small under the weight of the chandeliers. "You call me, it gets there. Fast and on time." This was an express job; I was hoping for a good review. The man gave me a quick once-over. "Alright, come in, grab a bottle of water. Just… stay out of the way. And for God's sake, don't disturb the guests." He led me down a corridor flanking the main hall. Ahead, an open, unglazed archway—some kind of European affectation—offered a perfect, hidden vantage point. I glanced through. Just in time to see a hand lift a bidding paddle. On the wrist, a simple red cord bracelet. The contrast against the crisp, white cuff was stark under the spotlights. My breath hitched. I instinctively ducked back behind the wall, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Hey," I said, forcing a smile, trying to look like some wide-eyed kid who’d never seen real money before. "What's the main event in there?" The man arched an eyebrow. "A playground for the rich." Just then, the sharp crack of a gavel echoed through the hall. "Sold! For thirty-two million dollars. Congratulations to Mr. Hayes." The suited man let out a low whistle. "That Caleb Hayes… looks young, but he’s the real deal. Dropping thirty mil on some old royal necklace like it’s nothing." I barely heard him. A single thought consumed me, squeezing my heart tight. Mr. Hayes? But… he was broke. Wasn't he? 2 I’d been searching for Caleb Hayes for three solid months, ever since he’d disappeared from our tiny apartment in the middle of the night. I’d quit my other gigs to take this courier job because it kept me moving, always looking. Every delivery was a chance to scan a new face, a new building. I watched the local news every night, terrified I’d see his face in a police report or an obituary. The applause inside the gallery was polite but firm. The lights all converged on the necklace, its diamonds scattering a brilliant, painful light across the room. It burned my eyes. I didn’t go in. I couldn’t. I just risked one more glance through the archway. He was in a casual but clearly expensive suit, his head tilted slightly as he spoke patiently to the woman beside him. He looked like he belonged there. Nothing like the man who shared my cramped, messy life. She was gorgeous. A cascade of auburn waves, makeup so perfect it looked like it was part of her skin. She didn’t need spotlights to shine. And the man on Caleb’s other side… I knew him. Rhys. Caleb’s best friend from his prep school days. They were all laughing, talking easily, as if thirty-two million dollars was just a number, a stray thought. "Damn, man. Good to have you back," Rhys said, clapping Caleb on the shoulder. "A hell of a lot better than playing house with that sad-sack artist." Caleb pressed the palm of his hand against Rhys’s forehead, a playful shove. "Don't remind me. I almost forgot what it felt like to spend money." The woman giggled, leaning into him. "Only thirty million, Caleb? Is that all?" Even from here, I could smell a perfume that was probably worth more than my scooter. "If you’re feeling so generous, maybe you could buy me those earrings I wanted?" Her eyes were intoxicating, alluring. "You did complete my little assignment, after all. You know I always reward good behavior." Rhys let out an exaggerated laugh. "Jesus, Sloane. If the poor girl knew this was all just a game for you, she'd probably have an aneurysm." Sloane's expression was placid, almost bored. "I just wanted to see what a real-life Cinderella story looked like. It was disappointing." Caleb squeezed her face again, a fond, indulgent smile playing on his lips. "You've been impossible since we were kids." She pouted. "Whatever. Just make sure you wash the smell of that girl off you before tonight. Or you’ll be sorry." I saw a flicker of something in Caleb’s eyes. Lust. Desire. He leaned in and whispered something in Sloane’s ear, a look I had seen a thousand times, a look I thought was reserved for me. "Is that a promise?" They shared a private smile, the possessiveness in his eyes utterly naked. Rhys just laughed again. "Classic Sloane. You're the one who told him to go date the broke girl in the first place, and now you’re the one who’s disgusted by it. You never change." "That was then," she said, and for a split second, her eyes flicked toward the archway. Toward me. I flinched back, my blood running cold. I shouldn't have looked again. I should have just run. But my feet were rooted to the spot, and I saw her mouth form the words, clear as day. "This is now. And now, he's mine." 3 Caleb was always perceptive. The next second, our eyes met across the cavernous room. Panic seized me. I spun around and bolted. I could hear the scrape of a chair, the frantic sound of footsteps on polished marble. Just as I reached the main exit, a hand clamped down on my arm. Caleb. "Mr. Hayes," I mumbled, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor. I stared at the red cord on his pale wrist. It looked so wrong now, so out of place. "Leah? What are you doing here?" I sniffled, forcing myself to look up. "Can't you see, Mr. Hayes?" Rhys and Sloane had followed him out, their expensive shoes clicking on the floor. "No," I corrected myself, a bitter taste in my mouth. "I guess I'm the one who's been blind." The judgment in their three pairs of eyes was suffocating. They looked at my blue courier uniform, the company logo stitched plainly on the chest. Caleb's brow was furrowed in a tight knot. Sloane stamped her foot, a petulant little motion. "Caleb, don't tell me you actually fell for her?" As if her words had burned him, Caleb snatched his hand back from my arm. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a sleek, black credit card. "Here. It's linked to my main account. Take it." I didn't move. I just stared at the card, cold and dead in his hand. "What is this, Caleb? A severance package?" I let out a hollow laugh. "Don't worry. The cheap crap in our old apartment isn't worth a fraction of this." His face hardened with frustration. "Then what do you want?" What do I want? He had the audacity to ask me that. I doubled over, a laugh escaping my lips that sounded more like a sob. I looked at him, at the two people flanking him like designer-clad vultures, and my voice went cold and sharp. "I told you, Caleb Hayes. The one thing I can't stand is being lied to." Sloane rolled her eyes. "So much drama." It was a quiet comment, but in the tense silence, it landed like a slap. It was meant for me to hear. "Sloane, don't," Caleb snapped, but it was the tone you use on a misbehaving puppy, not an equal. 4 I’d heard that tone before. When I was a kid and my cousin would come over, he loved to "excavate for treasure" in my bedroom. My drawings, the ones that took me days to finish, the special paints my mom had saved for months to buy me—he'd smear them all together into a muddy, useless mess, getting streaks of color all over his face. My grandmother would come in, chuckling, and wipe his cheeks. "Oh, you little rascal. Such a troublemaker." She’d hug him tight. "You can't do that again, you hear?" It was a scolding with no teeth. It meant nothing. Just like now. Caleb was telling Sloane to stop, but the intimacy in his voice only empowered her, made her feel more secure. She made a face at him, then looked away with a dismissive little huff. Rhys stepped in to play peacemaker. "Alright, alright, it's getting late. Caleb, let's not keep the lady from her job." That was it. I tore off the blue courier jacket and threw it at him. It hit him square in the chest. "Since you're obviously not dead in a ditch somewhere, I guess I don't need this job anymore." Caleb froze, his whole body rigid. The color drained from his face, replaced by a glacial fury. I'm sure in his entire privileged life, no one had ever done something like that to him. The city lights flickered on, casting long shadows down the street. I got on my scooter and drove away. Through the visor of my helmet, the world blurred. I suddenly remembered the first time I met him. He was standing under a giant oak tree on campus, wearing a simple white shirt, the afternoon sun filtering through the leaves and dusting him in gold. His hazel eyes were full of light. "You a freshman?" he'd asked. He was a junior, working the student orientation table. "You should join the activities committee." So I did. Just to be in his orbit. It gave me an excuse to have his number. The first time I ever texted him, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely type. What do you even say? I’d spent the entire day rehearsing, from the moment I woke up until the dorm lights went out. Finally, I sent three pathetic little words. Hey, it’s Leah. He must have been holding his phone. The reply came back instantly. You’re up late. But now, when I opened our message thread, it was just a monologue. My monologue. Long, desperate green bubbles of text, unanswered. A digital monument to my own stupidity. How could a person like me ever think someone like him could truly love me? It was all a lie. A calculated, cruel lie, right from the very beginning. 5 Caleb and I got together the night he graduated. He was drunk, stumbling out of a bar near campus. I worked up every ounce of courage I had and followed him. He was so out of it he could barely see straight. He grabbed my wrist, pinning me against a brick wall. "You want to do this?" he slurred, his eyes hazy, half-closed, a dangerous charm radiating off him even then. Like a fool, I said yes. And to my shock, he didn't take it back the next day. He remembered. He stayed. So I worked harder than ever. I took on extra shifts, sold my paintings on the side—anything to feel like I wasn't completely out of my league. My income was a joke compared to his, but it was something. It was mine. But Caleb's world was different. A single shirt he owned was worth more than my annual salary. He’d just ruffle my hair and say, "You're doing great, Leah." And that one sentence would be enough to keep me going for weeks. It didn't last long. A few months into our relationship, his family's company went bankrupt. His parents, he said, had fled the country to escape their debts. The moment I heard the news, I rushed to find him. He was sitting on the front steps of his family’s empty, foreclosed mansion with nothing but the clothes on his back. He just looked up at me, his shadow stretching long and lonely under the streetlights. "Go home, Leah," he said, his voice hollow. "I have nothing left to give you." I was crying, but I was also smiling. For the first time, I sat down next to him without being invited. I took his arm in mine. "It's okay," I whispered. "I've got you now." He flinched, then turned, and his mouth was on mine. A desperate, all-consuming kiss. It was the closest we'd ever been. 6 Back in our—my—tiny rental apartment, the ghost of him was everywhere. The ceramic bowls we’d painted together at a pottery class. The coasters we’d tried to knit one drunken Tuesday night. The matching pair of slippers by the door. I started packing it all into trash bags. One thing at a time. It was only then, as I purged our life from the apartment, that I realized we didn't have a single photograph together. Not one. A cold thought began to form in my mind. He knew it was a game from the start. That's why he never wanted any evidence that we were real. I opened his Instagram. Nothing. Not a single post, not a single story that ever included me. We had never even made it official. We just… were. And now we… weren't. I clipped my bangs back from my face and splashed my face with cold water. The water made the thin, white scar on my forehead stand out in sharp relief. Closing my eyes, I was back in the moment. The screech of tires. He’d run across the street to grab a cake for my birthday. A car came out of nowhere, speeding. I didn't think; I just moved, shoving him out of the way. I took the hit instead. The bruises faded, the bones healed, but this scar, this one mark on my forehead, never quite went away. So stupid. For the first time in years, I took out my concealer. It felt like I was trying to spackle over the hole in my chest. A pathetic act of self-deception. My hand was shaking so badly I could barely hold the brush. A car horn blared outside, making me jump. The brush slipped from my fingers and clattered into the wet sink. You're pathetic, Leah. All the disappointment, the anxiety, the desperate hope I'd been holding onto for three months—it all came crashing down. I didn't even know what I was crying for anymore. For my shaking hands? For a love affair that no one else in the world even knew existed? I slid down the cool tile wall until I was curled up in a ball on the floor. I don't know how long I stayed there. Hours, maybe. Long enough for the dark square of the window to melt completely into the night sky. Finally, I moved my dry, cracked lips. "Caleb Hayes," I whispered to the empty room. "I'm done with you." From this day forward, we were over. For good. 7 Truthfully, Caleb didn't have much stuff at my place. It only took two hours to clear out every trace of him. I called the old man who collects junk in our neighborhood and gave him everything. Suddenly, the apartment felt clean. Bigger. There was nothing in pairs anymore. It was calming. I started making a list of things to do, plans for finding a new job tomorrow. Then my phone buzzed. A new message. It was a photo. Caleb, his eyes half-lidded, lounging in the arms of Sloane. They were in some impossibly glamorous VIP lounge, the background a blur of champagne bottles and neon lights. The moody lighting cast shadows on his face, giving him a debauched, rakish look I’d never seen before. Sloane hadn't written a single word. She didn't have to. The message was loud and clear: This man belongs to me. After the emotional dam had broken earlier, I just felt… numb. I deleted the photo and, with a steady hand, went to the kitchen to make myself a bowl of instant noodles. Crying over him once was enough. Crying over a man more than that was just plain stupid. The noodles were barely cooked when my phone rang. An unknown number. "Hey, broke girl. No, wait. Leah." It was Rhys's booming, obnoxious voice. "Caleb's wasted. He's refusing to leave the bar until you come pick him up. Get over here." I slurped a mouthful of noodles. "Caleb who? Don't know him." "What are you talking about? Just hurry up. They're about to close, and he's going to end up sleeping on the damn sidewalk." "Then let him," I said, finishing the noodles in three more bites. "Even better if he's dead." Rhys started to argue, but I just hung up. A waste of my phone plan. I switched my phone off completely and went to bed. For the first time in months, I slept soundly. When I woke up, sunlight was streaming through the window, pooling on the floor. I realized that as long as I wasn't waiting for Caleb, I could actually rest. It was the first day of my life without him, and even the bed felt bigger, more spacious. I was about to get up when a head poked out of my bathroom.
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