Three months before my wedding, I saw the gown in his studio.

It was the one Julian had designed with his own hands.

My heart swelled.

Julian Vance was, after all, once a world-renowned wedding dress designer.

A single custom piece of his was worth a fortune, but a hand injury had forced him out of the industry years ago.

I thought this dress was his special surprise, just for me.

Then I saw her wearing it on the runway.

His little protégée, clad in that diamond-encrusted gown.

She had replaced me as Julian's one and only muse.

My friends called to check on me, but I told them not to worry, my voice steady.

This time, I wasn't going to lie to myself anymore.

I just quietly snapped a picture of the dress I had once dreamed of and posted it to my Instagram.

The caption was simple: "Goodbye to ten years. Goodbye to the dress."

……

Julian came home to find me flipping through old photographs.

He was always so possessive, never wanting anyone else to take my picture.

Most of these photos were ancient.

So old I’d almost forgotten I was once a model, bathed in the glow of spotlights.

He saw the pictures, and his gaze faltered.

"An old friend asked for a favor," he said. "I had to design one more dress, put on one more show."

Then, he pulled out a ring box.

"Surprise," he said. "This was my payment."

He gently took my hand, but as he tried the ring on each finger, from thumb to pinky, it was either too big or too small.

The air grew thick with an awkward silence.

I pulled my hand back.

"It's okay," I said. "I love the ring. It's the thought that counts."

Julian’s lips tightened, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

He hesitated, expecting me to get angry, to demand answers.

Whether it was about the fashion show or the ring, the old me would have drilled him for details.

Even I was surprised at my own reaction, expecting a storm of hysterical questions or a blaze of irrational anger.

But there was nothing.

I was shockingly calm.

All my fight had been drained the moment I saw that wedding gown.

The dress I had watched him sketch and perfect, the one I thought was his gift to me, the crowning jewel of our wedding.

At the very least, I thought that dress would be mine.

But it wasn't.

It was worn by the show's finale model, Julian's protégée, Zoe.

The theme of the collection was "Forged in Love, For My Love."

During a backstage interview, Julian had said, "This piece is my heart and soul, a gift for the one I love."

He waited for Zoe as she stepped off the runway, and they posed for pictures, his arm wrapped intimately around her.

The audience sighed with envy.

"A gown poured from the heart can only truly shine on the one he loves," someone whispered.

I stood in the crowd, separated from them by an invisible wall.

Today was Julian's birthday.

I’d heard from a friend he was going to an art exhibit, so I planned to surprise him and take him to dinner.

In the end, I walked through the gallery alone and walked out alone.

On my way out of the building, I tossed the cake and his gift into a dumpster.

I came home to look at old photos and taste the sour reality of our relationship.

As I started to flip through the album a second time, Julian grabbed my wrist.

"Chloe," he said softly. "It's my birthday."

My face was a blank mask.

"Oh. Happy birthday."

He frowned and held out his hand, but was met with my confused stare.

A wounded look flashed across his face.

"If you forgot a gift, a hug would be just fine."

He opened his arms and stepped toward me.

For years, he had been the perfect partner, always saving face, always giving me an easy way out of a confrontation.

I used to be so desperately in love with that sensitive, thoughtful side of him.

But now, as the familiar scent of his shower gel filled the air, I covered my nose.

I knew that smell too well, which made the cloyingly sweet ladies' perfume mixed in with it all the more sharp and sickening.

I stepped back, dodging his embrace.

"I'll get you a gift tomorrow," I said. "Let's just skip it for tonight."