This was supposed to be our wedding condo, yet here we were, finalizing the designs based on the preferences of my fiancé’s dead brother’s widow. On the walk-through, Dean frowned at the freshly applied slate-blue accent wall. “Have this wall repainted,” he instructed the foreman. “Switch it to a warm apricot. Willa always said warm colors make a place feel like home.” It was our home, a space meant for me, yet his entire aesthetic barometer was calibrated to another woman’s taste. But this time, I didn't argue, I didn't push back, and I didn't offer a single, petulant complaint. I calmly folded the architectural drawings. My voice was level, devoid of any discernible emotion. “Fine. Whatever you want. After all, the woman who hosts the home in your heart has always been Willa.” His fingers, mid-buttoning his cuff, froze. He looked over, a flicker of genuine shock in his eyes. The condo was a catch—perfect location, lavish finishes. Too bad the woman moving in wouldn't be me. 1 The drive back to the Walker estate was silent. Dean glanced at me several times in the rearview mirror, clearly wanting to speak, but ultimately saying nothing. I leaned my head against the window, watching the blur of sycamore trees rush by. My heart felt like a desolate, quiet field. Five years. That’s how long it took me to finally face one brutal truth: Dean had never truly loved me. I was just a stand-in, a shadow filling the space while Willa wasn't there. When we pulled up to the house, Mrs. Walker was waiting, welcoming me with a wide smile. “Avery, dear, you’re here! Come wash up, I made your favorite—braised short ribs.” Mrs. Walker took my hand, her smile beaming. I offered a polite, detached, “Thank you, Mrs. Walker,” and followed her into the dining room. My gaze immediately landed on Willa, seated next to Dean’s chair at the head of the table. She was wearing a soft lavender slip dress, her hair loosely pinned up, and an ankle wrapped in a bandage. She was painstakingly attempting to shift her chair. “Willa,” I greeted her flatly, taking the seat opposite Dean. She looked up at me. A flash of something—was it triumph?—crossed her eyes before melting into a look of fragile vulnerability. “Avery, I hear you and Dean checked out the condo today? I’m so jealous,” she sighed, her voice soft. “When Rhys and I got married, we barely had a proper studio apartment…” At the mention of her deceased husband, her eyes immediately welled up. Dean set his fork down. His voice was gentle, laced with concern. “Willa, don’t think about those painful things. Your brother-in-law is here to take care of you now.” I looked down and sipped my water, a perfect outsider. A year ago, I would have slammed my hand on the table and demanded to know whose fiancé he actually was. Now, the desire to even fight was gone. Mrs. Walker quickly intervened. “Eat, everyone, the food is getting cold.” Dean carefully placed a piece of de-boned fish into Willa’s bowl. “You’re hurt, Willa. Fish is good for healing.” She offered a breathy thank you, her gaze flickering subtly toward my face. I took a bite of my short rib, chewing slowly. It tasted overwhelmingly bitter. Finished with the fish, Dean wiped his fingers on a napkin and, without looking up, scooped a chunk of kiwi from Willa’s salad bowl and dropped it onto my plate. The piece was still glistening with fish broth residue. “Avery, you should have some fruit. Vitamins.” I stared at the chunk of kiwi. I am severely allergic to kiwi. Even a trace of it can swell my throat shut. He knew this. He had sat with me in the ER while I was on an IV drip, but he had clearly never cared enough to remember. Before, I would have pushed the plate away, my eyes burning with tears as I launched into a tearful accusation of his neglect. Now, I simply pushed the dangerous piece of fruit to the far edge of my bread plate. “I’m finished.” I put down my napkin and stood up. “Mrs. Walker, I have a headache. I’ll go rest in the guest room.” Mrs. Walker looked surprised, but nodded quickly. “Of course, dear, the linens are all fresh.” As I walked up the stairs, I heard Willa’s soft voice drift up from below. “Dean, this soup is so hot, I can’t hold the bowl steady…” “Don’t move. I’ll feed you.” My foot paused momentarily on the step, but I didn't turn back. The intimate, bantering tones from downstairs pricked like fine needles on a heart already gone numb. After dinner, I came downstairs, my handbag in hand, ready to leave. Dean was on the sofa with Willa, watching a reality show. He looked up, a slight frown marking his face. “You’re leaving this late?” “I have an early closing at the firm tomorrow,” I said, my tone flat. “I’ll drive you.” He started to reach for his keys. “Don’t bother. I called a ride-share.” “Avery,” he stood up abruptly, his voice tinged with irritation. “What is your problem? You’ve been impossible since the condo viewing.” I met his eyes. My mind was finally crystal clear. “Nothing is wrong. I just saw things clearly.” “What things?” “That you don’t have me in your heart.” He stiffened, his gaze darting away. “Stop being dramatic.” “You know whether I’m dramatic or not.” I gave a shallow, detached smile. “But it doesn't matter anymore. I don’t want you, either.” I pushed the front door open and stepped out. I heard his quick footsteps behind me, but I didn’t pause. Just as I reached the edge of the circular drive, I heard Willa’s panicked, choked voice ring out. “Dean, please don’t leave! My ankle is throbbing! I think the bone shifted…” The sound of his footsteps instantly stopped. The crisp autumn air was sharp, and it quickly dried the sudden wetness at the corners of my eyes. I settled into the ride-share. The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Little fight with the boyfriend?” I shook my head, gazing out at the blur of city lights. “No. Just refusing to play the supporting role anymore.” Back at my apartment, I pulled out my old phone and scrolled through five-year-old text messages. Back then, Dean was an idealistic intern doctor, barely scraping by, and his eyes were only on me. I scrolled through the silent slide show of old photos. The year of the flash flood. I was stranded outside my office building, soaking wet. He gave me his only raincoat, got completely drenched himself, but laughed with a warmth that could melt anything. He was the top of his class; I was a fresh-faced attorney. We were solid. He would get up at three in the morning to make me soup when I was pulling all-nighters on a brief. I said I wanted to see the Aurora Borealis, and he saved his stipend for a year to fly me to the Arctic. He even made a solemn vow: “No matter what happens, you will always be my first choice.” I was naive enough to believe that was my forever. Then, two years ago, his brother Rhys died in a car accident, leaving Willa a widow. I knew Willa was their childhood friend, the quiet benchmark of perfection they both looked up to. Dean said he had to be “like a father” to Willa, fulfilling his duty to his brother. But somewhere along the line, his phone wallpaper changed to a family photo with Willa dead center. He forgot my birthday, but remembered the exact date of Willa’s cat’s neutering surgery. When I was rushed to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy, his reply was a one-word text: Busy. I found out later that night, Willa’s house had lost power, and he had stayed up all night with her because she was afraid of the dark. I finally understood: his devotion had only existed because Willa was married to someone else. I was the comfortable compromise. I was nothing more than a placeholder during his emotional vacancy. The sudden ring of my phone sliced through the quiet. Dean’s name flashed on the screen. I hesitated, then answered. “Be ready tomorrow. We’re going to look at furniture.” His tone was completely authoritative, as if today’s drama had never happened. “Okay.” I hung up, staring blankly at the ceiling. This, I decided, would be my last time playing my part. The next morning, Dean arrived precisely on time. His favorite jazz station was playing softly in the car, and I leaned back, resting my eyes. “How did you sleep?” he asked casually. “Fine.” He noticed my coldness, and his jaw tightened. He started to speak, but stopped himself. Mid-route, his phone rang. The ringtone was exclusive—it was Willa. The moment he answered, his expression turned instantly anxious. “Willa? What’s wrong?” A panicked scream, mixed with the sound of thunder, came through the speaker. I couldn't make out the words, but Dean’s face went white. “Don’t panic. Lock the doors. I’m on my way!” He slammed the brakes, screeching to a halt on the shoulder of the highway, miles from any exit or town. “Avery, you need to get out and call a cab.” He didn't even look at me. His hand was already on the door handle. I asked calmly, “A reason?” “Willa’s power went out in the storm, she has extreme nyctophobia! I have to go!” He slapped the steering wheel in his agitation. “Don’t be difficult, Avery. This is an emergency!” Watching his frantic desperation, I remembered his vow: “You will always be my first choice.” It was a worthless promise. It evaporated the moment Willa needed him. I unclipped my seatbelt, pushed the door open, and stepped out. The car sped away, disappearing into the torrential downpour. The sudden storm instantly soaked my trench coat. We were on an isolated access road; getting a cab was impossible. I pulled out my phone and sent my best friend my location. “Come get me. I’m moving out.” Forty minutes later, my friend Sloan’s SUV screeched to a halt in front of me. “Dean is an absolute bastard!” Sloan fumed, handing me a towel. “Dumping you here?!” I was toweling my soaked hair, my expression serene. “Are you really doing this?” Sloan asked anxiously through the rearview mirror. “Five years is a long time…” “Exactly. Five years is long enough. I won’t waste a sixth,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Cutting your losses is required learning for an adult.” Back at my apartment, I started packing. The lace dresses I bought to mimic Willa’s style, the expensive skincare she recommended—all of it went into black garbage bags. I looked at my reflection—no makeup, no pretense. I looked both strange and familiar. For five years, I’d tried to live as another woman’s imitation. Clearing every trace of him was liberating. At eleven that night, my phone buzzed with a text from Dean: Did you make it home? I looked at the three words, thought of his retreating taillights in the rain, and my finger hovered over the screen for a moment before I tapped the button: Block Contact. The world finally went quiet. On Monday morning, I was at my firm to finalize my resignation. I had given notice two weeks earlier; today was my last day. Dean’s hospital was only two blocks from my office. As I walked out of the building, hugging a box of personal effects, I ran straight into him. He looked terrible—dark circles under his eyes, his face etched with exhaustion. Clearly, he hadn't slept. Dean grabbed my wrist, his grip like steel. “Why did you block me?” “Let go.” “Answer me!” His voice was a dangerous, suppressed whisper of anger. “What kind of game are you playing?” “Dean, we’re finished.” He froze, as if he didn't understand the language. “What did you say?” “I’m breaking up with you.” I repeated, pulling my hand free. “Excuse me.” “You think this is how you make me compromise?” He scoffed. “This tactic is boring, Avery. You’ll be back when you cool off.” I ignored him, stepping toward the curb. “Stop!” He lunged, blocking my path, his voice low and threatening. “Don’t push your luck.” I looked up at him, feeling nothing but profound exhaustion. “I used to care if you were angry. Now, you’re just noise.” His expression solidified, as if he were seeing me for the first time. “Move. I’m in a hurry.” I hailed a passing taxi. He roared behind me, “Avery, you will regret this!” I got in the car without looking back. The window rolled up, sealing his shocked face outside. Regret? My only regret was not walking away sooner. In the afternoon, I drove to Dean’s hospital. Not for a reunion, but to return his apartment key and parking pass. The nurses at the front desk all recognized me, and I walked directly to his Chief of Staff office. I pushed the door open, and there was Willa, sitting in Dean’s executive chair, idly fiddling with his fountain pen. The cream cashmere sweater she wore made her look elegant and demure. When she saw me, a hint of a victorious smile touched her lips. “Avery? Looking for Dean? He’s on rounds. Do you want to wait?” “No. Just here to drop something off.” I placed the key and pass on the desk. She rose and walked toward me, her voice soft and conspiratorial. “I heard you two booked The Celeste Ballroom at The Observatory for the wedding? The ceiling is stunning.” She paused, a calculating glint in her eyes. “I’ve always wanted to hold a charity memorial for Rhys there, but their schedule is impossible…” “And?” “Well,” she bit her lower lip delicately. “Do you think if I asked Dean, he would give me the date?” I smiled, a cold, empty gesture. “You can try.” She was visibly thrown by my calmness. The door burst open, and Dean strode in. He frowned when he saw us. “What are you doing here?” “Returning the key. Now we’re even.” “Wait,” he stopped me, then turned to Willa. “Willa, can you step out for a minute? I need to talk to her.” Willa nodded sweetly. As she passed, she gently tugged his sleeve. “Dean, the venue I mentioned…” “I heard you. We’ll talk about it later.” His tone was slightly impatient, but he didn't refuse her. After she left, the air felt thick and heavy. Dean walked up to me, his voice softening. “Avery, stop throwing a tantrum. Let’s talk this out.” “There’s nothing to discuss.” I turned to leave. “Stay right there!” He blocked the doorway. “We are going to finish this conversation now.” I looked up at him, utterly drained. “Dean, I’m tired.” “You’re tired? Go home and rest, don’t cause a scene here.” “Not physically tired,” I pointed to my chest. “Here.” He was momentarily stunned. “For five years, I tried to be the woman you wanted. I wore the clothes you liked, ate the food you preferred—all just to get a single genuine look from you.” “Avery…” “But I understand now,” I cut him off. “You don’t love me. I was just the substitute you settled for while she wasn’t available.” “That is absolute nonsense!” He was genuinely angered now. “Haven't I treated you well? You have my bank cards, the condo is in your name, what more do you want?” I laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. My eyes stung. “Yes, you gave me a lot. Everything but your love.” “Avery, don’t do this!” He softened his tone, reaching for me. “Avery, please believe me, I do love you. But Rhys is only two years gone, and Willa is suffering. I’m just trying to take care of her for my brother.” He stopped, then continued, his focus instantly shifting. “By the way, Willa said she really needs that Celeste Ballroom date for the memorial. It’s vital for her healing. Could we maybe postpone our wedding for a few months? Or switch venues?” I stared at him, suddenly feeling a chilling sense of disbelief and deep irony. “What did you say?” “The wedding is just a ceremony. Our relationship doesn’t need a spectacle to prove itself. Besides, we’re family. Willa’s needs are our family’s needs. Be reasonable.” I looked at him for a long time, until he dropped his gaze, unable to meet mine. “Fine,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Give it all to her.” Dean let out a relieved breath and smiled. “I knew you would understand. After the memorial is over, we can—” “The venue, the wedding cancellation, and you. I’m giving all of it to her.”
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