Christmas Eve. Downstairs in the office, nearly half the team had fresh bouquets delivered from their boyfriends. Tessa, my team lead and closest work friend, nudged me with her elbow. “Harper’s man is an actual Art Curator and Rhodes Scholar, not some corporate schmuck like the rest of ours. He knows romance better than anyone, I guarantee it.” I had certainly set the bar high. Two years ago, Rhys Ashworth sent nine hundred ninety-nine velvet crimson roses—enough to fill the entire reception area. Last year, it was a gallery-quality neon art installation spelling out “I Love You,” supposedly embedded with countless pink diamond dust. When it came to public displays of affection, Rhys never let me lose. But this year, my phone was silent. A tomb. I started to panic, convinced something terrible had happened. I cashed in my unused vacation days, booked the first available flight, and crossed half the globe in a single, desperate journey. I was shivering, clutching my worn coat, when I saw him. He was standing beneath a sprawling, snow-dusted Christmas tree right outside his London apartment, kissing another woman. 1 Seeing the familiar angles of his face—the way his brow furrowed in concentration even when he was relaxed—I froze solid. Rhys gently lifted the girl, helping her tie a handwritten wish ribbon onto a branch. “Babe, tomorrow is Christmas.” he whispered, his voice the same soft rumble I’d fallen asleep to on countless video calls. “Santa always makes sure your wishes come true.” The girl’s wide, doe eyes sparkled as she looped her arms around his neck, leaning in to pout. “Will he really make all my wishes come true?” Rhys winked, his hand falling in a casual, possessive slap on her behind. “Of course.” The intimate familiarity of that small, dismissive gesture was a knife twist deep in my gut. I ducked behind the nearest corner, shrinking into the shadowed doorway of a closed bakery. I was a thief, spying on the happiness of my own fiancé and his girlfriend. Tears, hot and unexpected, flooded my eyes. Eight years of a long-distance relationship. This was the first time I had ever checked up on him. The girl giggled, a soft, cloying sound, and playfully tapped her fist on Rhys’s chest. “Now put me down, you big tease.” He steadied her waist with one hand and pressed the back of her head with the other, pulling her close for a deeper, more demanding kiss. I lost it. Fumbling with my phone, I unlocked it. I took a few shallow, shaky breaths to try and level the earthquake in my chest. If he just admits it. If he tells me she’s just a fling, a momentary slip... I can self-destruct later. I can pretend I never saw this. “Rhys, who are you with?” I texted, my thumb hovering over the send button. A familiar jingle rang out from his pocket, just yards away. The girl immediately drew back and complained, her bottom lip stuck out. “Your phone has been going off all night. Which little siren is trying to lure you away now?” She turned her face away dramatically. Rhys instantly held up three fingers in a mock-oath. “Gen, I swear, you’re the only one. Where would I even find anyone else?” He pulled her back into his arms, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I cut off my engagement for you, babe. Been right here with you in London for six years now.” Six years. Eight years we’d been together. And he’d been with her for six of them. A choked laugh escaped me, a ragged, ugly sound. I sank to the snow-dusted ground, my limbs suddenly too heavy to hold me. Tessa’s text popped up on my screen, a cruel reminder of the life I’d left. Tessa: Did you make it to London safe? Tessa: Don't play too hard with the fiancé, remember work when you get back! ;) The tears came faster, heavy and burning. My colleagues had helped me pick out a new dress for our "reunion date" and chipped in for a beautiful set of matching leather bracelets. We all thought Rhys would be ecstatic to see me. The voices faded as they moved away. I risked peering around the corner and watched the girl—Gen—take Rhys’s arm. She leaped onto his back with a lightness that felt like a mockery. “Quick, practice carrying me over the threshold for our wedding!” she chirped, delighted, like a little sparrow. Wedding? He was planning to marry her? What, then, did our tumultuous eight years—our promise of marriage—even mean? I booked a cheap, awful hotel room that had a direct sightline to Rhys’s apartment. A quick, painful dive into the art world gossip confirmed the details. The girl’s name was Genevieve, or Gen. She was Rhys’s student. In the hallowed halls of the Royal Academy, they maintained a cool, professional distance. But here, outside, they were co-habitating. They were passionately in love. While the Academy wouldn't necessarily block a relationship between a Professor and a student, a high-profile curator like Rhys—engaged to one woman while living with and impregnating another—would be finished. I stood at the window for hours in an act of self-flagellation. I watched Rhys gently peel off her clothes. I watched him trace the line of her jaw and kiss her eyelids. The two shadows, obscenely intertwined on the wall, shifted and moved until the yellow light of their window was the only thing burning on the dark street. It burned a hole straight through my chest. Around 4 AM, Rhys finally replied to my text. Rhys: I was at the studio all night, trying to hit a deadline for the gallery. So sorry, Babe, totally forgot to send a proper Christmas blessing to my future wife. He sent a quick $500 Venmo transfer, labeled "For your trouble." I stared at the cold, clinical number. The pain in my chest was sharp and dense. For every previous holiday, no matter where he was in the world, Rhys had always flown back to me. I used to tease him that he couldn't live without me. He would nuzzle my neck and whine. “It’s true. The husband can’t live without his wife. Just wait until I finish my post-doc, then we’ll get married. Never separate again.” Five years ago, he earned his PhD. I asked when he was coming home. He told me sheepishly that a friend had convinced him to open a gallery in Paris and he couldn't leave yet. Three years ago, when the gallery moved to London, I asked again. He mumbled about an adjunct professorship at the Academy. The wedding date kept moving. I grew sensitive, anxious. Was he seeing someone else? To calm my fears, he would video call every Sunday night. But now, scrolling through our messages, his last text was from two weeks ago. After that, it was a long, pathetic solo performance from me. I didn't touch the Venmo money. My finger tapped the screen lightly. Harper: I’m coming to see you tomorrow for Christmas. The dreaded Rhys is typing... appeared on the screen. It stayed there. For three agonizing hours. He finally sent a cutesy dog meme. Rhys: Oh, I hate the thought of you flying all that way! Let's just do a long video call. I need my wife rested! Rhys could have chosen to be honest. But he was still hiding. Perhaps I was no longer important enough to warrant the truth. I didn't give him any more time to prepare. As soon as the sun cracked the horizon, I knocked on his door. When Rhys opened it, his eyes weren’t fully awake. He assumed I was a delivery driver and motioned toward the living room. “Just leave the package on the coffee table.” I followed his gaze. A pink silk teddy—rumpled and tossed carelessly—was draped over the sofa. Acid surged up my throat. My eyes stung violently. “Rhys...” My voice. The man's spine went instantly rigid. His eyes cleared, snapping into focus. “Harper?” he gasped, astonishment warring with panic. I only nodded, a tiny, numb gesture. The bedroom door clicked open. Gen, wearing only a thin, white bra and panties, walked out, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “It’s too loud out here,” she murmured. Rhys’s face drained of color. He scrambled to peel off the sweater he was wearing and quickly wrapped it around her, his eyes darting back to me. His explanation was desperate and hollow. “Harper, this is Gen. She’s my student. She had a terrible fight with her boyfriend and I was worried about her safety, so I let her crash here.” Gen looked instantly pale and pathetic. She bit her lip and eyed me timidly. “Hello, Mrs. Ashworth.” I managed a clipped nod. The forced smile I attempted evaporated immediately. Rhys cooked. He cleared the table, making a feast of French toast and eggs. Eight years. He had finally learned to cook and clean for a woman. Only it wasn’t me. Gen announced she had to leave for class. Rhys immediately reached for his car keys to drive her. I swallowed the rising tide of anger and hurt and looped my arm through his with a cheerful smile. “Take me with you. I’d love to see the campus.” Rhys pulled over one stoplight before the school entrance. Gen quickly avoided his hand as he went to undo her seatbelt, turning to me with forced sweetness. “Thank you, Professor and Mrs. Ashworth, for the lift. I’ll get out here.” She gave Rhys a meaningful, miserable look and then hurried away. Rhys’s eyes were glued to her retreating figure. As if remembering something crucial, he threw his own door open and sprinted after her. My nails bit deeply into my palms. I could taste the metallic tang of blood from where I’d chewed the inside of my mouth. Rhys pulled a hot compress and a small packet of ginger tea from his coat, pressing them into Gen’s hand. His tender, low instructions drifted back on the cold wind. “Remember, the first day is always the worst. Be sure to take care of yourself, okay?” Tears spilled instantly and without warning. I scrubbed them away frantically. Rhys watched her walk through the gates. Only when she was gone did he turn back and seem to remember I was still in the car. He explained in a low, conspiratorial voice, “Gen is an orphan. I’m just a mentor, Harper. It’s a student-professor connection. Please don’t overthink it.” I nodded. Just a mentor. As soon as we walked onto the main quad, we ran into a group of his students. Their eyes bounced between Rhys and me, the tension evident. One of them finally spoke up with a grin. “Is this Professor Ashworth’s American girlfriend?” Before Rhys could answer, I reached into my designer handbag, pulled out a handful of the high-end chocolate truffles I’d bought, and distributed them. “Not his girlfriend, actually,” I corrected, my smile bright and cutting. “His Fiancée.” They looked up, surprised, then started congratulating us, offering their clumsy, enthusiastic well-wishes. Rhys’s brow furrowed. He squeezed my wrist, his voice tight. “Harper, let’s go. I want to show you the chapel.” I waved goodbye to the students with exaggerated warmth, assuring them that our wedding was soon and that they would absolutely be invited. Just around the corner, I saw Gen’s pale, wobbling figure. She dabbed at her eyes and hurried away, a picture of wounded innocence. Rhys turned on me, his voice sharp and cold. “What the hell was that, Harper? What are you trying to pull?” I straightened my back and met the contained fury in his eyes. “Pull? Did we not finally save the money for the wedding? Didn’t you promise we would marry as soon as we had the fifty thousand dollars?” I raised my voice, the final sentence a scream ripped from my chest. “Or is it that you don’t want to marry me anymore? Have you fallen in love with someone else?” My aggression shocked him. His face hardened, and he bit out a single, ugly word. “Shrew.” He took off after Gen. I couldn’t hold the facade any longer. I leaned against the cold stone wall, the fight draining from me, and let the tears flow. My phone started a frantic, non-stop vibration. It was my mother. I hit the answer button. My mother’s sobbing flooded the speaker. “Harper, your father had a sudden brain aneurysm. He needs emergency surgery, now.” “I didn’t want to bother you, but the doctors say he’s critical. I’m afraid I won’t raise the money in time…” The pain in my heart was instantly eclipsed by terror. I quickly opened my savings app to transfer the money. But after entering my password, the screen flashed: INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. There should have been exactly $50,000—my entire wedding fund. I tried again, disbelief numbing my fingers. Still insufficient. Trembling, I pulled up the transaction history. Three minutes ago, Rhys had transferred the entire fifty thousand dollar balance out.
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