Seven days before the wedding, a red decorative wedding motif appeared on the door of my new apartment.

I wasn't the one who put it there.

And I wasn't the one who locked the door.

I rang the doorbell. The woman who answered was wearing a silk pajama set.

She leaned against the doorframe, her gaze drifting from my face down to the keys in my hand.

“So you're Joy Fox?”

“Fabian Dickerson said you'd show up.”

“He told me you're the type who loves throwing the apartment in people's faces.”

She smiled.

“But sorry.”

“This door? I'm the one opening it now.”

I stood in the doorway, staring at the sofa and dining table my mother had picked out herself.

After a long moment, I dialed 911.

“Hello, someone has broken into my home.”

——

The smile on the woman's face froze.

“What did you just say?”

I ignored her.

Once the call connected, I gave the address.

“Riverview Towers, Building 12, Unit 2701.”

“I'm the property owner.”

“Someone has moved into my apartment without permission and changed the locks.”

The woman lunged for my phone.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Who broke in?”

“This is Fabian's apartment!”

I stepped back.

She missed. Her expression went cold.

“Joy Fox, right?”

“I know who you are.”

“Fabian told me you two broke up a long time ago.”

“You've been clinging to him, refusing to let go.”

I looked at her.

“That's what he said?”

She folded her arms and stood inside the doorway.

Like the lady of the house.

“He said your family has some money, that you've got a temper, and you have to control everything.”

“He's been sick of it for a long time.”

“He's just too soft-hearted to say it to your face.”

“But I'm not him.”

She tilted her chin up.

“I suggest you take the hint and stop making a scene outside my wedding apartment.”

My wedding apartment.

Those three words drove into my chest like a needle.

I looked past her into the apartment.

The doormat in the entryway. My mom bought that.

She said red was festive, that stepping on it on the wedding day would bring good luck.

The little ceramic bear on the shoe cabinet. My dad brought that back from a trip.

He said young people liked that kind of thing.

The sofa in the living room. My mom and I spent three days browsing furniture stores before we settled on it.

She said it was too expensive. She hesitated for a long time.

Then swiped her card anyway.

She said：

“After you're married, when you come home tired from work, you need a comfortable place to lie down.”

Now a stranger in a silk pajama set, wearing my slippers, stood in the home my parents had put together for me.

Asking me why I was here causing trouble.

I stared at her.

“What's your name?”

She smiled.

“Felicia Chavez.”

Of course.

Fabian's college first love. The one he never got over.

The girl who dumped him for being poor and married a rich guy instead. His untouchable dream.

I'd seen her photos.

I just never expected the first time I'd see her in person would be inside my own apartment.

Felicia watched me go silent and her smile widened.

“Heard of me?”

“Then you should know, the one Fabian has always loved is me.”

“You were just the placeholder he kept around when he was bored.”

I let out a short laugh.

“A placeholder?”

I opened my phone's photo album, pulled up a picture of the property deed, and held it in front of her face.

“Take a good look, Miss Chavez.”

“The placeholder's name is on the deed.”

“Your beloved Fabian didn't pay a single cent.”

Felicia's expression shifted.

She grabbed for my phone.

I sidestepped her.

The next second, the elevator doors opened.

Fabian came rushing out.

Sweat beaded across his forehead, and the top two buttons of his shirt hung open.

He saw me, then saw Felicia standing inside the doorway. His feet stopped dead.

“Joy.”

He called my name.

His voice came out thin.

Felicia's eyes went red instantly, and she rushed to his side.

“Fabian, she called the cops!”

“She said I broke in illegally!”

“She even said this apartment is hers!”

Fabian pulled her behind him without thinking.

The gesture was subtle.

But it told me more than any explanation ever could.

I stared at him.

“Fabian.”

“Don't you think you owe me an explanation?”

He wouldn't meet my eyes.

“Joy, calm down first.”

“Felicia just got divorced. She had nowhere to go.”

“I just let her crash here for a few days.”

“I was going to tell you.”

I looked at the brand-new lock on the door.

“Crashing for a few days requires changing the locks?”

He choked on his own words.

Felicia whimpered behind him.

“Fabian, maybe I should just go.”

“A divorced woman like me is just a nuisance wherever she goes.”

Fabian panicked immediately.

“Don't say that.”

He turned to look at me.

His tone hardened.

“Joy, do you have to be so aggressive about this?”

“Your family's well off. Don't fight her over a little space.”

I almost laughed out loud.

“I'm fighting her?”

“Fabian, this is my apartment.”

“Not a shelter for your ex.”

He frowned.

“Yours, mine, what's the difference.”

“We're getting our marriage license next week.”

“Once we're married, it's all one family, right?”

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Two officers arrived.

“Who called this in?”

I raised my hand.

“I did.”

The officers checked my ID and the photo of my property deed.

Then they asked Felicia to show proof she had a right to be there.

Felicia stammered and stalled.

All she could manage was one line：

“Fabian told me I could live here.”

The officers turned to Fabian.

“Are you the property owner?”

Fabian said nothing.

The officers' expressions tightened.

“If you're not the owner, what gives you the right to move someone in and change the locks?”

Felicia finally realized something was wrong.

She grabbed Fabian's sleeve.

“Fabian, didn't you say you bought this place?”

“Didn't you say her name's on the deed only because her family pressured you into it?”

I laughed.

Fabian's head whipped toward me.

A warning flashed in his eyes.

“Joy, let's talk about this at home.”

“Don't make a scene out here.”

I looked right at him.

“A scene?”

“You moved your ex-girlfriend into my home. She's wearing my slippers. Sleeping in my bed.”

“And now you're worried about making a scene?”

Even the officers looked disgusted.

“The situation's clear enough.”

“The owner doesn't consent. You both need to vacate immediately.”

Felicia lost it.

“On what grounds?”

“All my stuff is in there!”

I glanced toward the apartment.

“Your stuff?”

“Perfect.”

“Officers, do you mind if I go in and take inventory?”

The officers nodded.

I walked through the door.

The moment I stepped inside, a wave of cloying perfume hit me.

Like someone had crammed a piece of rotting candy into the home my mother had prepared for me.

Two wineglasses sat on the coffee table.

One of them still had a lipstick mark on the rim.

A few shipping boxes were stacked next to the TV stand.

Recipient：Felicia Chavez.

The master bedroom door was half open.

I pushed it the rest of the way.

The bed was dressed in a deep burgundy bedding set.

A color I had never seen before.

In the corner of the bay window, a pair of decorative pillows lay tossed aside.

My mom had embroidered those by hand.

She'd sat under the lamp with her reading glasses on, stitching for two straight nights.

She'd pricked her fingers three times.

Now the pillows were buried under Felicia's torn-open delivery boxes.

She hadn't even glanced at them.

On the nightstand sat a Polaroid.

Fabian and Felicia in matching pajamas, leaning into each other.

On the back, a line of handwriting：

“After all this time, it was always you.”

I picked up the photo.

Fabian followed me in.

The second he saw what was in my hand, his face changed.

“Joy, don't go through other people's things.”

I turned to look at him.

“Other people's things?”

“Sitting on the nightstand in the master bedroom of MY apartment?”

He had nothing to say to that.

I threw the photo at his chest.

“Fabian, the wedding invitations have already been sent out.”

“My mom has been calling relatives every single day this week to confirm who's coming.”

“And you?”

“You were in my wedding apartment, taking couple photos with your dream girl.”

He bent down and picked up the photo.

His first instinct wasn't to throw it away.

He wiped it off. Carefully.

I watched him do it, and whatever warmth was left inside me went cold.

“Joy.”

He said.

“I admit what I did was wrong.”

“But you're not innocent either.”

I stared at him, caught off guard.

He lifted his head and met my eyes.

And there it was. Righteous indignation. Like he actually believed what he was about to say.

“You always bring up the apartment.”

“The deed is in your name. Your parents paid for it. Your family covered most of the renovation.”

“Do you have any idea how much pressure that puts on me?”

“Every time your mom says this place is your safety net, it feels like a slap in the face.”

“I was supposed to be marrying you, but I felt like a stranger living in your house.”

“Felicia's different.”

“She'd never hold any of that over my head.”

I looked at him.

“So you went ahead and became one.”

“A stranger. And you brought someone else in to take my place.”

His expression froze.

From outside, Felicia called for him.

“Babe, come help me pack my stuff!”

Fabian turned to leave.

I stopped him.

“Keys.”

He looked back.

I held out my hand.

“And the smart lock code.”

Fabian frowned.

“You really have to be this cold about it?”

I didn't answer. Just looked at him.

He dug a set of keys out of his pocket and slammed them onto the bed.

“Fine.”

“Don't come crying to me later.”

I picked up the keys.

“I won't be the one crying.”

I didn't go back to my rental that day.

I went straight to my parents' place.

The moment my mom opened the door and saw my face, she forgot to put down the spatula in her hand.

“Sweetheart, what happened?”

I opened my mouth.

Not a single word came out.

My dad walked over from the living room.

“Did Fabian do something to you?”

I handed them my phone.

The photos I'd taken at the apartment were still on the screen.

The wine glasses.

The matching pajamas.

Felicia's delivery boxes.

The Polaroid on the nightstand.

And the wedding pillows, crushed underneath it all.

My mom's face drained of color.

She gripped the edge of the dining table and didn't speak for a long time.

My dad swiped through them one by one.

When he reached the last photo, he set the phone down.

For a long, long time, he said only one thing：

“The wedding is off.”

My mom finally snapped out of it.

Her eyes were red.

“How dare he?”

“That's the apartment we bought for you.”