Everyone probably thought the day I got out of prison was the happiest day of Yvonne Nash’s life. She was there early, waiting at the gate with roses in her hands, like we were some picture-perfect love story.

All the way home, she kept saying, "Hi, darling, I missed you." Over and over, like she actually meant it. But that night, she locked herself in the bathroom and made a call.

"Yvonne, you won’t touch him, right?" A man’s voice, low and cautious.

"Relax," she said. "I don’t have feelings for him anymore. He went in for me. Once I repay the favor, I’ll break up with him."

I didn’t stick around to hear more. Just grabbed my phone, my chest hollow. "Mom, I’ll do what you asked. I’ll marry that girl."

——

Silence. Then my mom’s voice, stunned. "Wait, really? Why so suddenly?"

I gripped the phone tighter. "Just set it up. I know what I’m doing."

Before I could hang up, I felt arms wrap around me from behind. "I miss you so much," she murmured.

I froze. Was this really the same woman who had just spoken so coldly in the bathroom?

I tried to pull away, but she held on tighter. Like always, she thought I would never leave. That I would take whatever she threw at me.

She wasn’t scared. Why would she be? I had already gone to prison for her.

Yvonne licked her lips, looking satisfied and that’s when I noticed the ring on her finger—gleaming, unmistakable.

Unbelievable. Every time we passed a jewelry store, I would ask her to pick matching rings. She always brushed me off, said rings were a hassle. And yet, here she was, wearing one.

I was still trying to process that when she pulled me to the bed without a word. Her kisses landed light and quick, like raindrops on warm pavement.

"I've been waiting so long," she whispered. "You're finally back. I’ll make it up to you."

Make it up to me? How? How do you repay someone for losing eight years of their life?

Yvonne's hands moved with practiced ease, but her mind was clearly somewhere else. Every few seconds, she would glance at her phone, completely checked out.

I used to send her thousands of messages—probably over 10,000. She barely ever replied, always too "busy with work."

Funny how she suddenly had time now. Every notification, she checked instantly. No hesitation. Then, for a split second, her screen lit up and I saw it.

Her wallpaper. A wedding photo with someone else. Something inside me clenched, but I still wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet.

“It's been eight years. Shouldn’t we get married by now?” I said.

She froze. For a long moment, it was like she wasn’t even there, like I was speaking to an empty shell. Then, finally, she forced a smile, awkward and thin. “Why get married, Jordan?”

I had confronted her before, more times than I could count. And every time, she had an excuse. But aside from that, she was perfect, at least, that’s what everyone told me.

People said Yvonne was probably planning the wedding of a lifetime, something so extravagant no man could ever refuse.

They said I was lucky to have her. That a woman like Yvonne was a once-in-a-lifetime catch. So I believed them. I believed them enough to go to prison for her.

And every day behind bars, I told myself it would all be worth it. Now here we were.

She reached for my arm, her voice soft, sweet. “We haven’t been together in so long. Let’s take things slow, yeah? We need time to rebuild what we had.”

How much time did she need? As far as I knew, she never had male friends. Even her assistants were all women.

She used to bring me everywhere, introducing me openly, proudly.

“My boyfriend,” she would say with a smile. “Don't be jealous. There’s only one you in the world.”

Yeah. There was only one me, but she had plenty of others.

Yvonne used to feed me in public, always making sure I didn’t drink too much, too. Every birthday, she gave me handmade gifts with long, heartfelt letters that made it seem like I was the only man in her world.

I used to believe that, but not anymore. I tossed off the covers, got out of bed and pulled back the curtains.

Outside, Yvonne—thinking I was still asleep—slipped into her car, moving carefully, quietly. Then she drove off.

I watched the empty driveway for a long time. This relationship was done. Or at least, it should have been.

The next morning, I rolled over and felt Yvonne’s warm shoulder beneath my hand. She yawned, stretching like a cat. “Jordan, you’re awake? Are you hungry?”

I wanted to believe her, that she had been lying next to me all night. She never left.

But the perfume clinging to her skin wasn’t hers. The scent of shower gel, one that didn’t belong in this house, lingered on her.

I forced a smile. “I'm not hungry. You should go to work.”

She hesitated but got up anyway, heading downstairs. Soon, the sound of eggs sizzling filled the air, the scrape of a knife against the cutting board.

From the outside, everything seemed normal. But the fresh scratches on her neck and the dark red marks on her arms told another story.

By the time she came back upstairs, she was dressed, makeup light but perfect. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Don't go to work today. Just rest.”

Years ago, when her business was just starting out, the audit reports had errors. She barely slept, barely ate. The stress wore her down. That company was everything to her and I couldn’t just stand by and watch.

So I took the fall. Became the guy who "saved" everything—the big hero, the perfect fiancé. Now that the company was running smoothly, I had no reason to go back. But that wasn’t why she wanted me to stay home.

A text had popped up on her phone that morning. [I'm coming to see you today. Brought you a love lunch box, yours truly.]

Attached were a few pictures—flirty, suggestive and definitely not work-related. Of course, she definitely didn’t want me showing up.

I nodded. “Alright. I’ll stay home.”

She smiled, satisfied, grabbed her bag and walked out the door. And yet, for some reason, I still found myself getting into my car and driving after her.

It took me three minutes to pull into the underground garage. Three minutes too long.

By the time I got there, I saw them; Yvonne and some guy in a suit. She wasn’t pushing him away. If anything, she was leaning in.

His hands were on her, familiar, possessive. Her eyes never left him, not even for a second. Then he stopped, looking down at her with a smirk. “Do you swear to me? You really didn’t touch him?”

Yvonne laughed, fingers running through his hair. “Why would I? He’s disgusting after coming out of prison. Why would I want to? Besides…” She trailed a finger down his tie, eyes playful. “Don’t I have you?”

And just like that, she kissed him. Slow. Deep. Like she meant it, like there was nothing else matter in her world now.

When she finally pulled away, she sighed, glancing at her watch. “Ugh, I have to go to work.”

Then, as if it was an afterthought, she pushed him back against the hood of the car, tilting his chin up. “From now on, you’re my secretary. Your desk will be in my office.”

Then she hesitated. “But don’t tell anyone. On paper, Linda still has that position. No one can know.”

The guy smirked, tugging at the ribbon on her blouse. “I understand, Ma’am.”

I didn’t react. Didn’t move, just wiped my tears, deleted the car’s driving record and sat there, watching as they walked into the building like nothing had happened.

And as I drove away, I couldn’t stop wondering, when Yvonne came home tonight, would she pretend nothing happened? Or would she look at me like I was disgusting, as she said?

I still underestimated her, though. Before she even set her briefcase down, Yvonne slid an arm around me, pressing a kiss against my ear.

“I'll take you to the movies today. I saw you watching some movie review this morning.” She always noticed the little things. Used to make me feel like I mattered. Now, it just made me uneasy.

Before I could say a word, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the wardrobe. She carefully picked out a sweatshirt, draped it over my shoulders, then pulled me in for a kiss.

It all happened so fast, like she had rehearsed it. By the time I realized what was going on, I was already sitting in the passenger seat of her car. The same car she had been all over that guy in this morning.

She pulled out two tickets. Titanic. We had watched that movie so many times before, but tonight, I couldn’t bring myself to care.

The theater lights dimmed, the screen lit up and Yvonne’s phone started buzzing. She ignored it at first. Then a few minutes later, another buzz. And another.

She tried to hold off, pretending to be focused on the movie. But eventually, she gave in. I noticed the way her fingers twitched as she unlocked the screen. The way she swallowed hard. The way her whole body reacted to whatever she was reading.

Then she leaned over, voice low. “I’ll be right back.”

I just nodded, keeping my eyes on the screen. The movie played all the way through to the final song. Her seat stayed empty.

Then, my phone vibrated with a company chat notification. A new guy named Langston Shaw had sent a message. [My girlfriend wanted to take me to a movie today, but I wasn’t feeling great, so I stayed home. Maybe she threw the ticket away now.]

A few people responded, asking if he was okay.

He sent a couple of shy emojis. [All good. I messaged her and she came straight to my place. Didn't take long.]

The chat exploded, guys hyping him up, asking for his “secrets” to handling a girlfriend like that. Then, Langston sent a photo. A woman. Just her shoulders, wrapped in a bath towel. [Sorry, kinda busy today. I’ll share my tips another time.]

I didn’t need to see her face. I had seen this body for years—seven, maybe eight. I knew every inch of it, every mark, every scar. And yet, tonight, I had to watch it in someone else’s hands.

At the same time, Yvonne’s message popped up on my screen. [Sorry, the company needed me for something urgent. Go to bed early, okay? I love you so much. I'll apologize later.]

I stared at the words, my chest hollow.

How far had she and Langston gone by now? Were they still wrapped up in each other, or had she already fixed her hair, reapplied her lipstick and driven home to me?

I leaned back in the taxi, scrolling through the suit photos my mom had sent earlier. [Sweetheart, take your time choosing. When the day comes, the wedding will be perfect. I'll make sure of it.]

***

As expected, by morning, Yvonne was beside me again, acting like nothing had changed. She watched me with that soft, affectionate look, as if I was the only person who existed.

I picked up my phone and pressed play. It was a video from Langston. No sound, but the images were enough. His hands tearing at her clothes. Her body arching into him like it was second nature.

The way she let him have her—without hesitation, without restraint. A beast in human form. That was how I had seen him at first, but maybe she was worse.

Yvonne stretched beside me, rubbing her eyes, smiling like she had just woken up from a perfect dream. “Jordan, you don’t have to work anymore. You went to jail for me, so of course, I have to take care of you. I’ll support you from now on.”

As if it was a gift and she was doing me a favor. I smiled, nodding like I believed her. It didn’t matter. I was leaving soon anyway. Resigning was just a formality.

I turned off my phone and got out of bed, watching as she moved around the kitchen, humming to herself while making breakfast like nothing had happened.

I walked over, stepping behind her. Slowly, I ran my fingers over the fresh scar on the back of her neck.

She froze for a fraction of a second. Then, without turning around, she reached up to touch it, forcing a laugh.

“You scratched me last night when you turned over,” she said lightly. “I need to get back at you for that.”

She turned, reaching out to tickle me, like she always did when things got tense. However, when I didn’t react, didn’t even crack a smile, she hesitated. Her hands dropped, her expression faltering for just a second before she forced a laugh.

I stared at her, realizing—maybe for the first time—what it felt like to be toyed with, to be on the other side of someone else’s game.

She turned and walked out the door, her steps quick, as if she couldn’t leave fast enough. I let her go. Didn’t stop her. Didn’t call her name, I just packed my bags.

By the time I walked out, I left behind everything that belonged to the Nash Family. And then, I boarded a plane alone.

Before I even landed, my mother, who never missed a chance for drama, had already contacted the press. She wanted the world to know.

Meanwhile, Yvonne was leaving the office when she found herself swarmed by reporters. “Sorry, I don’t do interviews,” she said smoothly, trying to brush past them.

But they didn’t back down. “Miss Nash, what do you think about your fiancé’s wedding?”

Yvonne froze mid-step. For the first time, her composure cracked. She turned around so fast that the reporters barely had time to react, her face suddenly pale. “What did you just say?”