My mother was setting the table when I came downstairs. White plates. Silver forks. The good wine glasses she only used for holidays and special occasions. Valentine's Day counted as special in the Martin household. It always had.

"Talia, can you fold the napkins?" she asked without looking up.

I crossed the dining room and picked up the linen squares she'd ironed that afternoon. My fingers moved automatically, creasing each corner, smoothing each fold. Through the doorway, I could see my father in the kitchen, working a corkscrew into a bottle of red. He was humming something under his breath. He always hummed when he was happy.

I checked my phone. Still no text from Matthias.

He was supposed to be here by now. He came every year. We'd sit around this table, eat my mother's pot roast, and my father would tell the same three stories he always told when he'd had enough wine. Matthias would laugh in all the right places. My mother would bring out dessert. It was tradition.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

I looked down.

*Stuck at work, babe. Big deadline. So sorry. I'll make it up to you this weekend.*

I pressed my thumb against the inside of my wrist. Hard. The pressure helped. It always did.

I typed back a heart emoji and hit send.

"Is he on his way?" my mother asked.

I slipped my phone into my pocket. "He can't make it. Work thing."

She paused, napkin in hand, and looked at me with that expression mothers have when they're deciding whether to say the thing they're thinking. She decided against it. "That's too bad," she said quietly. "Well. More pot roast for us."

I smiled. It felt like the right shape on my face, so I kept it there.

We sat down to dinner twenty minutes later. My father poured the wine. My mother served the food. I answered their questions about work, about the wedding planning, about whether I'd heard back from the florist. I said all the right things. I always did.

Halfway through the meal, I checked my phone again.

I don't know why. Habit, maybe. Or the feeling in my chest that something was wrong, something I couldn't name yet.

I opened Instagram.

The first story on my feed was from a girl I knew from college. Claire something. We weren't close. I almost swiped past it.

But I didn't.

The story was a photo of a latte with foam art, captioned *best coffee in the city* with a location tag. I recognized the café immediately. It was across town. The place with the brick walls and the corner booth by the window. The place where Matthias had asked me to be his girlfriend two years ago.

In the background of the photo, blurred but unmistakable, were two people sitting in that corner booth.

Matthias. And Scarlet Boyd.

Her hand was on his arm. She was laughing. He was leaning in.

I stared at the screen for ten seconds without blinking.

Then I set my phone face-down on the table.

"Talia?" My mother's voice sounded far away. "Are you all right?"

I looked up. Both of them were watching me.

"I have a headache," I said. My voice sounded normal. That surprised me. "I think I need to lie down."

My mother started to stand. "Do you want me to—"

"I'm fine," I said quickly. "I just need a minute."

I pushed back my chair, walked upstairs to my childhood bedroom, grabbed my coat and my keys, and left through the side door before either of them could follow.

I drove across the city with both hands locked on the steering wheel. The streets blurred past. I didn't remember most of the drive. I just remember the feeling in my chest, tight and cold, like something breaking in slow motion.

I parked two blocks away and walked the rest of the distance.

The café was warm and crowded. I pushed open the door. A bell chimed. No one looked up.

I saw them immediately.

Corner booth. By the window. Exactly where we'd sat two years ago when he'd reached across the table, taken my hand, and asked if I wanted to make this official.

Scarlet's hand was cradling his face. Her fingers were in his hair. His mouth was on hers.

It wasn't a quick kiss. It wasn't an accident.

It was slow. Intimate. The kind of kiss that meant something.

I stood there for three seconds.

Then I turned and walked back out into the cold.

I sat in my car for fifteen minutes with the engine running. My hands were shaking. I pressed my thumb against the inside of my wrist until it hurt.

I did not cry.

I drove home. I walked back into the dining room. My parents looked up, surprised.

"Feeling better?" my father asked.

"A little," I said. I sat down. I picked up my fork. I ate the rest of my dinner.

My mother asked if I'd talked to the florist. I said I had. My father told one of his stories. I laughed in the right place.

When dinner was over, I helped clear the table. I kissed them both goodnight. I went upstairs to my childhood bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the edge of the bed in the dark.

I did not call Matthias. I did not text him. I did not scream or throw anything or fall apart.

I just sat there, thumb pressed against my wrist, and made my decision.

I woke up at six. I didn't remember falling asleep. The phone on my nightstand showed three messages from Matthias.

I didn't open them.

I showered. I dressed. I made coffee in my parents' kitchen while the house was still quiet. My mother found me there twenty minutes later, standing by the window with an empty cup in my hand.

"You're up early," she said.

I turned. "Couldn't sleep."

She studied my face for a long moment. Then she crossed the kitchen and put her hand on my arm. "Talia."

"I'm fine," I said.

She didn't believe me. I could see it in her eyes. But she nodded anyway and let me go.

I checked my phone in the car. The messages were exactly what I expected.

*Morning, beautiful. Thinking about you.*

*Let me take you somewhere nice this weekend to make up for last night?*

*I know you're probably upset. I'm sorry. Work's been crazy.*

I set the phone in the cupholder and started the engine.

The apartment was across town. The one we'd picked out together six months ago. The one with the big windows and the kitchen island I'd spent an entire Saturday choosing bar stools for. I'd hung curtains. I'd bought coffee mugs. I'd found a small painting of a coastline for the hallway because Matthias said it reminded him of a trip we'd taken.

I'd built a life there, one careful choice at a time.

I parked in the underground garage and took the elevator up. My key still worked. I pushed open the door.

The living room was warm. Sunlight came through the windows I'd dressed. The air smelled like coffee.

Scarlet Boyd was sitting on the sofa.

She was wearing my robe. The silk one I'd left hanging in the bathroom closet. Her hair was damp. There was a coffee cup in her hand—one of the mugs I'd bought, the blue one with the chipped handle that Matthias always used.

She looked up when I walked in. She didn't startle. She didn't move.

She smiled.

"Talia," she said softly. "I didn't expect you this early."

I stood in the doorway with my keys still in my hand. I looked at her. I looked at the robe. I looked at the coffee cup.

I didn't say anything.

Scarlet set the cup down on the table—no coaster, I noticed—and tucked her legs underneath her. She looked comfortable. She looked like she belonged there.

"I know this is awkward," she said. Her voice was gentle. Reasonable. "I've been staying here for a few weeks now. Matthias knows. It's… complicated."

I pressed my thumb against the inside of my wrist.

"Complicated," I repeated.

She nodded. "We didn't mean for it to happen like this. But sometimes things just… unfold in ways you can't control."

I looked past her, toward the hallway. Toward the bedroom. The door was half-open. I could see the edge of the bed. The sheets were rumpled.

"Where is he?" I asked.

Scarlet tilted her head. "He left early. Meeting, I think. He said he'd be back this afternoon."

She said it so easily. Like it was normal. Like she had every right to know his schedule, to be here when he left, to drink coffee in my apartment wearing my robe.

I took a breath. It hurt.

"You need to leave," I said.

Scarlet's smile didn't fade. If anything, it softened. She stood slowly, one hand resting on the arm of the sofa for balance. Then she placed her other hand on her stomach. Deliberately. Gently.

She held it there.

"I understand this is hard for you," she said quietly. "But I think you should know. I'm pregnant."

The room went very still.

Scarlet's eyes were on mine. Steady. Unblinking.

"It's Matthias's," she said.

She held my gaze for one second. Two. Three.

I didn't move. I didn't speak. I just stood there with my keys cutting into my palm and my thumb pressed so hard against my wrist I knew it would leave a mark.

Scarlet let the silence stretch. Then she picked up her coffee cup and took a slow sip.

"I didn't want you to find out like this," she said. "But I think it's better that you know now. Before things go any further."

I looked at her hand on her stomach. I looked at the robe. I looked at the coffee cup.

Then I looked at her face.

And I saw it. Just for a second. The flicker of something behind the softness. The edge of a smile that wasn't gentle at all.

She was enjoying this.

I took one step back. Then another.

"Get out," I said.

My voice didn't shake. I was surprised by that.

Scarlet set the cup down again. She didn't move toward the door.

"Talia—"

"Get out," I said again. "Now."

She looked at me for a long moment. Then she sighed, soft and sad, like I was the one being unreasonable.

"All right," she said quietly. "I'll go. But you should talk to Matthias. Really talk to him. I think you'll find he's been trying to figure out how to tell you for a while now."

She walked past me toward the hallway. I didn't move. I heard the bedroom door close. I heard drawers opening. I heard the rustle of fabric.

Five minutes later, she came back out fully dressed. She paused by the door.

"For what it's worth," she said, "I'm sorry."

She wasn't.

I watched her leave. I heard the door click shut. I stood there in the center of the living room—my living room, the one I'd furnished and arranged and imagined a future in—and I looked at the coffee cup she'd left on the table.

No coaster. A ring of moisture on the wood.

I walked over. I picked up the cup. I carried it to the kitchen and set it in the sink.

Then I took off my engagement ring and placed it on the counter.

I didn't cry. I didn't call Matthias. I didn't fall apart.

I just stood there, thumb against my wrist, and finished making my decision.