I hated him. But my rational mind knew he wasn't legally obligated to save me. I had no right to blame him for my fate.

But I couldn't help it. He was my fiancé. We were supposed to get married in a matter of weeks. He could have spared me two seconds to explain why he was busy instead of cutting me off. He could have called back when he realized I never came home, something I hadn't failed to do in five years of being with him.

He even knew where I was. I’d told him that afternoon I was heading to a material supplier in Brooklyn. And I had.

The shredded designs on the floor were a testament to my foolishness. My five years of devotion had been nothing but a long-running joke.

When I was younger, I defied my family to pursue a career in art. No one believed in me, so I clawed my way up, all on my own. I had finally carved out a small name for myself in the competitive New York City art scene. I thought I was in control of my own destiny.

But the universe had a cruel sense of humor. It turned out everything I'd built was on loan, and it was time to pay it all back with interest.

I swept my carving knives and drawing tools into a trash can. The remaining drafts went into a black garbage bag, ready to be tossed out with the morning trash.

That night, a friend messaged me a photo. It was Jonathan at the pre-launch party for his new album, a champagne flute raised high in a toast. The message read: [Jonathan just announced his engagement, congrats, Willow!]

My friend was clueless, of course.

He was at a party, celebrating his new album and announcing his engagement. But I wasn't there. So naturally, the media assumed his fiancée was Violet, who stood beaming by his side. They looked perfect together.

The next day, their names were trending everywhere.

"Indie Rock Star Jonathan Croft Announces Engagement to Producer's Daughter Violet Thorne—Wedding Bells Imminent."

The comments were a flood of congratulations, with fans celebrating that their favorite "ship had finally sailed."

That afternoon, Jonathan showed up at my apartment. It was the first time he'd ever bothered to come here.

Perfect timing. We needed to clear the air once and for all.

I opened the door. He paused when he saw the empty, sterile space. "Where are all your drafts? The models?"

"I can't create anymore, Jonathan," I said, my voice hollow as I held up my bandaged right hand.

"What? Are you kidding me? What happened?" He scowled, his tone shifting to one of disappointment, like he was scolding a petulant child. "Don't tell me you're giving up on art just because you hurt your hand. That's not like you. Stop being so dramatic, Willow. The engagement party is next month."

"I know the media got it wrong last night. I'll handle it. But you need to pull yourself together. Look at the state of you. You're coming home with me."

To him, this was all just a performance. My pain was an inconvenience.

I laughed. A raw, broken sound. Tears streamed down my face. "Home? What home? Where is my home? The one you share with Violet Thorne? The whole world thinks you two are getting married. What does that make me? The other woman?"

A deep frown creased his brow, his eyes turning cold and distant. "I announced our engagement. It was supposed to be a surprise. You're the one who bailed, so of course the reporters got confused. Okay, maybe I could have handled the press better, but I'm fixing it. This has nothing to do with Violet. If anything, she's a victim here too."

He was still defending her. In his world, I was the only one being hysterical and unreasonable.

The tears kept falling, but this time, his expression wasn't one of impatience. It was one of genuine confusion.

My voice was frighteningly calm when I finally spoke again. "Why didn't you answer my calls that night?"

"I did. I was in the studio. You know how important this album is to me," he said, dropping onto the sofa and crossing his legs with an air of aggrieved entitlement.

"Stop throwing a fit. I told you I was busy, and you still called three times in a row," he continued, his voice rising in frustration. Then, as if realizing he was being too harsh, he softened his tone. "Look, Willow... I'm sorry. Alright? Is that what you want to hear?"

I just stared at him, my face wet with silent tears. "Was it Violet who told you not to answer?"