A guilty look flickered across Julian’s face as he went to the kitchen to get me a plate.

I shook my head. "No, thanks. You two enjoy."

I walked back into the study, the thin wooden door doing little to block out the sounds of their laughter.

They chattered about everything from cake flavors to flower species, and which color of handmade flower would best suit Zoe.

Late into the night, Julian knocked on my door.

"I just saw your Instagram post," he said. "You misunderstood. I didn't design that dress."

"Zoe's mom gave me the sketches three months ago. She begged me to finish it, said she just wanted to see her daughter in a wedding gown."

"You know I grew up without a mom, so I have a hard time saying no to a mother's request."

A smirk played on my lips.

Didn't that completely contradict what he’d told the press?

And a design I’d seen him working on ten years ago was supposedly drawn by some woman three months ago?

How ridiculous was that?

Still, I heard myself ask, "Really?"

"Really," he said with absolute certainty.

If he says it’s true, then it’s true.

I didn't care anymore.

But he didn't leave.

"It's getting late," he continued. "You can sleep in the study tonight. I'll take the couch, and Zoe can have the bedroom."

I stared into his eyes, a thousand unspoken words dying on my tongue.

They all boiled down to a single phrase.

"Do whatever you want."

I didn't care about this either.

It wasn't the first time, anyway.

Our apartment was close to Julian's company, so Zoe often crashed here after working late.

We’d have breakfast together in the morning.

One time, Julian served peanut butter toast.

The moment I took a bite, my throat started to itch and swell from the allergy.

I needed him to take me to the hospital.

But he was completely engrossed in his conversation with Zoe.

"You love sweet things, right? How's the breakfast?"

My mind went blank.

How did he remember her taste preferences so perfectly?

I wanted to ask him, if he made breakfast specifically for her, why did he even bother making me a plate?

But their endless stream of chatter gave me no chance to speak.

After they finished eating, he immediately left to drive Zoe to work.

He never even noticed my face was flushed red, that I was painfully gasping for air.

I’ve always been allergic to peanuts.

Back in college, Julian wouldn't even let nuts in the same room as me.

Once, a mutual friend carelessly handed me a peanut butter cookie.

He smacked it out of her hand and onto the floor.

"Don't you know Chloe's allergic?" he’d roared. "Don't ever let me see you do that again."

The memory collided with the present, and I buried my face in my hands and cried.

After a sleepless night, I quietly went to the closet and packed a suitcase.

I left early the next morning, heading straight to the studio to submit my resignation.

Before I left, a notification popped up on my phone.

It was from Maya: Here's the work manual for Paris. Take care of yourself over there.

I was about to reply when my thumb slipped and opened Instagram instead.

Zoe had posted a video.

In it, she was in our kitchen, wearing my apron, cooking.

A freshly woken Julian came up from behind and wrapped his arms around her, then instantly let go when he realized his mistake.

But Zoe grabbed him, pulled him back, and they kissed.

The video's caption read: I’ve wanted to do this for a very long time.

Even if it’s stolen happiness, I’ll take it.

I stared blankly at the video.

After ten years together, I couldn't believe Julian would mistake me for someone else.

Even a complete stranger could tell the difference between me—tall with long hair—and Zoe, a short-haired little potato.

My phone slipped from my hand, the screen shattering with a sickening crunch.

Just like my heart.

As I bent down to pick it up, people burst into the studio.

Their argument was loud and fierce.