Rebound Night

“Is this really necessary?” I stood at the end of the line, shivering, tugging desperately at the hem of my tragically short skirt. I could practically feel it—if I opened my mouth to speak, my underwear would be on full display.

“Sweetheart, we paid a fortune to get into this place. Of course we’re going all kill. Do you not get it?” Ivanna declared like a mafia queen, standing tall against the icy wind in her five-inch heels without the slightest trace of fear.

“But isn’t this a little too—” I didn’t even get to finish before a brutal gust of wind slapped me across the face like it had a personal vendetta. I immediately yanked up the zipper of my puffer jacket and curled into myself like a frozen shrimp.

Ivanna let out a dramatic groan. “Mira, come on. We’re going to a bar, not an Arctic expedition.”

“I’m just glad I won’t be hospitalized for hypothermia tonight, thanks,” I snapped back.

She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might fall out of her head, gave me a once-over full of disappointment—but said nothing more. Small victory. My puffer jacket was safe—for now.

I’d thought we’d have to wait in line like everyone else. That was the whole reason I wore this thermal fortress of a coat. But clearly, I had underestimated Ivanna.

She had zero plans to follow the rules.

With the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times, she slipped a rolled-up bill into the bouncer’s hand, her palm casually grazing his rock-hard chest like a Bond girl who’d forgotten her martini.

Ten seconds. That’s all it took. We were in.

Ivanna was the kind of beautiful that made men forget protocol—and ethics—in an instant.

And just like that, we breezed into Roxanne.

The place was thick with heat, perfume, and the effervescent scent of champagne. I ripped off my coat the second we stepped inside, only to be met with a “are-you-trying-to-embarrass-me?” glare from Ivanna.

She handed her coat off to a passing server with a flick of her fingers, like she’d personally hired the man. Regal, effortless, born for this.

I tried to copy her moves. Failed miserably. Nearly dropped my purse and stumbled like a hamster who’d just woken up from a freezer nap.

Graceful? No. I looked like roadkill in Gucci heels.

If I hadn’t known each cocktail here cost about the same as my checking account balance, I might’ve even convinced myself I was pulling it off.

“Jesus Christ!” I gasped, eyes glued to the menu like it had just insulted my entire bloodline.

Ivanna gave me a sideways glance and scoffed. “Relax. Tonight’s on me.”

I exhaled with something dangerously close to gratitude. Considering I’d nearly broken off an engagement, risked being exiled to some remote tropical island by my parents, and needed to budget for anti-snake spray, I needed all the charity I could get.

Price tags aside, the view was elite: ambitious young actors, outrageously good-looking models, and a legion of finance bros who looked like they gave TED talks while wearing Burberry.

It was a glittering buffet of vanity and hormones, wrapped in velvet lighting and the illusion of power.

We found a table near the bar and hadn’t even ordered drinks when a bartender locked eyes on us.

Well. He was hard to miss—tall, sculpted features, sleeves rolled to the elbows just enough to show off well-trained forearms.

He shouldn’t be mixing drinks—he should be in the Louvre. Or at the very least starring in Dior’s newest fragrance campaign. Maybe that’s why this club was so expensive: even the staff had to be perfect.

“Two 75s, French brandy,”

Before I could even locate the cheapest drink on the menu, Ivanna had already tossed her order at the bartender. “Make it strong.”

And of course, she didn’t forget to flash her signature smile—the one that balanced perfectly between sexy and innocent, chin tilted just enough to say “Oops, didn’t mean to flirt”.

The bartender reached effortlessly for the gin, giving her a half-smile. “Rough night?”

“More like an engagement-level disaster,” she said, casually pointing her thumb at me. “And it’s wrapping up real soon.”

I glanced at her. “Thrilled that my personal life is now public broadcast.”

She patted my hand with mock sympathy. “Sweetie, this place runs on romantic catastrophes. Without bad decisions, no one would be buying drinks.”

Then she turned away and melted into the crowd, flipping into Social Queen Mode like someone had hit a switch.

In under ten seconds, she completed a visual sweep—like a hawk zeroing in on prey—before spinning back around and pointing her perfectly manicured finger toward the edge of the dance floor.

“Okay, listen. You need a rebound. Exhibit A: Six-foot-two, hair neater than your ex-fiancé’s moral compass, shirt unbuttoned just enough to scream sexy without slipping into cheap. He either owns a yacht or, at the very least, a VIP card.”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

Her eyes flicked to a new direction. “Exhibit B: struggling musician. Dressed like payday hasn’t happened yet, but he’s hot enough you’d forgive him. You’d fund his next album and still sleep like a baby.”

“Pass.”

She sighed, then pointed again. “Fine. Exhibit C: total dad vibes—but the good kind. Like ‘books your doctor’s appointment and your breakfast’ dad, not ‘calls the waitress ‘sweetheart’ and thinks climate change is a myth’ dad.”

I groaned into my hands. “Ivanna, please.”

She didn’t back down. “Mira, you cannot sit here like a decorative wall gecko. Tonight is about rebooting your life, not stitching up emotional wounds.”

Just as she geared up for a fourth round of rebound recommendations, she suddenly froze. It was like someone had hit mute on her entire system.

Then, far too casually, she said, “Hey, want to hit the bathroom?”

I narrowed my eyes. “No?”

“…Or maybe let’s move tables? The vibe here’s weird.” Her smile was tight, and her voice cracked like a pair of worn-out heels.

Weird vibe? We’d only been sitting for ten minutes, and we just ordered drinks. By Ivanna’s standards, we hadn’t even made it past the opening credits.

Then I followed her gaze.

A half-private booth.

Rhys.

He had his arm draped around a woman. Her head rested on his shoulder, makeup flawless, smile polished and effortless.

I didn’t need more details.

That face—I would never forget it.

Four years ago, a girl vanished under mysterious circumstances. I, in all my naive glory, believed she had simply “stepped aside,” choosing to selflessly walk away from a future with Rhys.

And now, here was Katherine—perched on my ex-fiancé’s lap, locked in a pose so intimate it looked less like a casual bar date and more like a budget version of Fifty Shades of Grey.

I had told myself I was over it. Over him. We’d broken up. It was done. Time to move on.

Until I heard what came next.

“Honestly, I didn’t think she’d fall apart over a coffee mug.”

Katherine’s voice was soft, full of false pity—the kind that sounded like she’d just killed someone and was now gently tucking a blanket over the body.

She gently swirled the wine in her glass, her lips curling into a near-perfect smile. “Of course I put that mug somewhere obvious. I wanted her to notice. After all, she still doesn’t know you’ve been seeing me behind her back. It was time she caught a little hint, wasn’t it?”

She looked up at Rhys, eyes glowing with admiration. “Honestly though, darling, your performance was spot-on. Even I almost believed you were worried she’d find out about us, instead of just helping me pull off the scene. She’s so stupid—of course she thought you were upset about the mug, not terrified of exposing your affair.”

Rhys chuckled softly, smug and relaxed. “I had to act like I cared. She spends every day trying to be the perfect girlfriend. If she found out all her effort still couldn’t compete with you, she’d lose it.”

Katherine laughed under her breath and patted his chest. “Don’t worry. Knowing Mira, she’s probably still scrambling to fix things. She’s the type who always believes that if she just tries hard enough, people will finally see her worth.”

Her laugh turned soft, laced with pity so sharp it felt like a blade. “But the harder she tries, the more pathetic she looks. And me? I just ‘happened’ to return home. Her parents don’t know a thing. They didn’t even get the chance to stop me. Tomorrow, I’ll be seeing them in broad daylight—because she gave up the engagement herself, and you, dear, are blameless.”

Katherine leaned back with a triumphant sigh. “Isn’t this the best ending? I never gave up on you. I was just waiting for her to step aside.”

Rhys nodded slowly, a small smirk on his lips. “You’re right. You always are.”

A loud roar filled my ears, and my heartbeat pounded against my skull like a war drum.

Ivanna must’ve been saying something—pleading with me to stay calm, not to do anything stupid—but I didn’t hear a word.

I wasn’t the same Mira who swallowed her pride for praise anymore.

I slipped free from Ivanna’s grip and turned to the bartender. “Your best red. Put it on Rhys Granger’s tab.”

The bartender—bless his beautiful, rule-breaking soul—didn’t even flinch. He handed me the bottle like I’d just ordered mineral water.

With the bottle in hand, I had a mission. A singular, burning purpose.

The bouncer moved to stop me, but one look at my face—like a vengeful goddess straight from hell—made him wisely back off, hands raised in surrender.

I marched straight toward Rhys and Katherine. They were lip-locked in some dramatic, second-rate soap opera make-out scene.

I raised the bottle—and smashed it, with all my strength.

Glass shattered with a sharp crack, spraying across the table. Rhys’s forehead split instantly, a trail of blood beginning to drip down between his brows.

Katherine screamed and leapt off his lap. “Mirabelle?! Are you insane?! What are you doing here?!”

She scrambled to find a lie, panic rising in her voice. “You’re misunderstanding, it’s not what you think—”

Rhys cut her off, his hand gripping her arm, his gaze dark and frigid. “Don’t bother explaining, Katherine. It doesn’t matter. My parents will take your side, no matter what. We’re just correcting an old mistake.”

Katherine’s panic twisted into smugness in an instant. She curled into his side with sickening sweetness and cooed, “Oh, honey, your head’s bleeding. We have to get to the hospital.”

Before I could say anything, Ivanna rushed to my side, fury radiating from every pore. She raised her hand, ready to slap Katherine straight back to whatever pit she'd crawled out of. “You disgusting, two-faced bitch—!”

I grabbed her wrist, steady and cold. “Ivanna, let them go. If they stay here one more second, I might lose my appetite permanently.”

I locked eyes with Katherine’s smug little face and raised my voice deliberately. “After all, the theme of this place is premium taste, not some clearance aisle for secondhand trash.”

Katherine’s smile froze on her lips. Rhys’s face darkened, but they had no chance to respond.

Ivanna, emboldened, lifted her chin and sneered at the bouncers. “Well? What are you waiting for? Kindly escort these two walking health code violations off the premises.”

Key Guy

As soon as they were gone, Ivanna dragged me out of the club.

Damn it. I hated that Katherine had predicted every single thought running through my mind.

Yes, I had still been considering salvaging my relationship with Rhys.

But now? The truth was right there, unmistakable and raw—they’d been sleeping together behind my back all along. And me? I was just the foolish, unnecessary third wheel in their twisted little story.

What I couldn’t wrap my head around was—why had Katherine faked her disappearance four years ago? What exactly had she been hiding? And why come back now?

My eyes stung. I tilted my head toward the sky, forcing the tears back.

Fine. Katherine’s back. Perfect. Now they could all reunite like a happy little four-piece family™, and I… I was finally free.

“Mira… I’m so sorry. I had no idea they’d be there tonight. I didn’t even know Katherine was back.” Ivanna’s eyes were full of regret.

I gave a bitter laugh and shook my head. “Neither did I. But I heard it loud and clear—they’ve been screwing around for a while. To them, I was just in the way.”

“Those goddamn assholes!” Ivanna hissed through clenched teeth. “You should tell your parents. Let them know Katherine’s not the perfect angel they think she is. What about Rhys’s parents? No way they’ll tolerate a scandal like this.”

I was quiet for a moment. Ivanna had a point—Rhys’s parents were the only people who had supported me. But he was their son. They wouldn’t choose me over him. Not in the end.

And my parents? I let out a breath, heavy and tired. “You know better than anyone—they only care about Katherine. No matter what I do, I’ll never replace her.”

Ivanna grabbed my shoulders, worry darkening her gaze. “So what now? You’re just going to let them humiliate you?”

“Maybe.” My voice dropped to a whisper, a weariness weighing it down. “Maybe if I accept it, it’ll finally be over.”

Suddenly, Ivanna’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, brows knitting in frustration. “Mira, my agent just called. There’s a last-minute ad shoot—I have to go now. Can you get home on your own?”

I nodded, managing a faint smile. “Go. Don’t worry about me. I’ll call when I get back.”

After she left, I hailed a cab. Instinctively, I gave the driver my home address. But barely two minutes into the ride, a wave of suffocating pressure settled over me.

“No, wait,” I said quickly. “Take me to a bar. Any bar. Just… far away from Roxanne.”

The driver didn’t blink—clearly used to the erratic demands of Sky City’s broken-hearted.

We eventually pulled up outside some unfamiliar nightclub. Velvet ropes. A crowd of influencer-types wielding selfie sticks. I didn’t bother checking the name. I handed the bouncer some bills and strode inside.

Straight to the bar.

“Whiskey sour. Large. Keep them coming.”

“Ma’am, maybe you should slow down,” the bartender said gently, with concern.

I slammed my empty glass on the counter and shoved my card across. “Did I stutter? Top me off.”

The bartender sighed, but obliged.

“That guy’s right,” a smooth, magnetic voice murmured beside me. “Too much alcohol can impair cognitive function and judgment. Unless you want to wake up in a stranger’s bed tonight—”

I turned, irritated—then froze.

It was him.

The man from last night. My new neighbor. The one who’d handed me my keys with all the casual elegance of a Renaissance statue.

“Well, well. You again.” I raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at my lips. “You really can’t resist other people’s business, huh?”

He chuckled softly, completely unfazed. “Think of it as a well-developed instinct for being helpful.”

I gave an exaggerated sigh. “You’re a hero, truly. But I don’t need saving, Mr. Key Man.”

“I know,” he said calmly, lifting his glass and taking a slow sip. His eyes were clear and sharp. “But you do seem in desperate need of clarity.”

I frowned. “Is this how you treat all your neighbors? First their keys, then their dignity?”

He laughed—a low, rich sound. “Only when the neighbor looks like she’s on the verge of self-destruction.”

“…But I am always self-destructing,” I muttered, suddenly quieter. “Doesn’t it seem kind of pathetic? Like my whole life is just one mess after another?”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t rush to reassure me, either. He didn’t even deny what I’d just said.

He just looked at me. Calm. Quiet. Like he was watching a slow-motion disaster unfold—but had no intention of stopping it.

“You’re not wrong,” he finally said, voice low and steady. “You are pretty good at making a mess of things. Like right now—you can’t even stand properly and you’re still demanding more alcohol.”

I froze, frowning instinctively.

But he went on, his tone unhurried—like he was flipping through a book and had landed on a sentence he already knew by heart:

“But strangely, you always seem to meet someone who refuses to walk away... right before everything falls apart.”

I stared at him, half in shock, half in suspicion. “Are you… flirting with me?”

He gave me a slow smile, his eyes lazily curving with just the right amount of mischief. His voice came out smooth and provocative, like velvet wrapped around steel. “Does it make you feel any better?”

His voice was low and warm, like whiskey being poured into a glass at midnight—just a little dizzying, just a little dangerous. He looked at me with an intensity that felt nearly uncontrollable, like he might lean in close and whisper things in the dark, on a bed, asking if his touch was hard enough.

My heart skipped a beat. My cheeks flushed instantly. My fingertips tightened against the edge of the bar.

I had to look at him properly. Really see him.

That face—it wasn’t just handsome. It had the kind of quiet, devastating maturity that no amount of cologne and hair gel could fake. Not the kind you’d find among the over-groomed boys who danced to house music like they were owed the world.

A wild, uninvited thought flashed through my mind.

If I let him walk away tonight, maybe I was rejecting one of those rare, merciful moments when fate offered a second chance.

Before I could stop myself, my hand wrapped around the sleeve of his suit jacket. I rose from the barstool, heart pounding.

“So, Mr. Keys,” I said, my voice hoarse but firm, “since you’re so committed to helping… why not help all the way?”

He clearly hadn’t expected that. His brow lifted slightly, surprise flickering across his face—but he didn’t step back. He didn’t laugh. He simply said, calm and steady:

“Of course. As long as this is something you won’t deny when you’re sober.”

“I’m sure.” I answered without hesitation.

Gripping his wrist tighter, I pulled him through the crowd and out of the bar.

The night wind struck us like a cleansing slap, city lights flickering above.

I didn’t let myself pause. No time to think, no space for regret.

We crossed the street. Entered the nearest hotel lobby.

Because tonight, I needed to know if I had the courage to accept what fate had placed in front of me.

It must have been one hell of a night, because when I woke up, sunlight was spilling through the curtains, and the red LED numbers of the digital clock blinked 10:07 AM at me with the judgmental smugness of a nun catching you sneaking out of the church.

The sheets still carried his scent—bergamot and sin—and my body buzzed from the lingering aftershocks of what we’d done.

I stared at the ceiling and thought: That was absolutely phenomenal sex.

The kind that wrecks you, delights you, and makes you stupid enough to want another round.

I ached everywhere—in the best, most regrettable way.

But my head… my head was a battlefield. It felt like a hundred tiny jackhammers were drilling through my skull. The alcohol from last night had declared mutiny, and my brain was paying the price, like someone had jammed a red-hot poker through my temple.

I had no idea how much I drank—definitely more than I should’ve.

The details had vanished into a fog thicker than a London morning.

Groaning, I rolled out of bed. Groaned again. Began gathering the scattered pieces of my clothing.

The plan was simple: Get dressed. Sneak out. Pretend this never happened.

I had just picked up my skirt when a voice stopped me.

“Leaving so soon?”

Shit.

I turned—very slowly, thanks to the hangover and the shame—and saw him standing in the bathroom doorway, a towel slung low on his hips.

Droplets clung to his abs, catching the morning light, trailing down the deep V of his torso.

I stared. Unashamed.

Images from the night before surged back into my brain. I suddenly felt… very, very thirsty.

“We need to talk,” he said.

Proposal

“We need to talk.”

He stood in front of me, voice disturbingly calm—like he was announcing the fridge had broken, not that I had thrown him onto a bed the night before.

Talk?

My brain instantly began filtering keywords. Talk about what? A debrief? A review? Or was he proposing some sort of… “long-term sexual partnership”?

Definitely not a proposal. That only happens in soap operas written by people with chronic romance brain.

Was he worried I’d cling to him?

After all—it was me who started this.

I was the one who dragged him out of the bar.

I was the one who opened the hotel door.

I was the one who pinned him down without a second thought.

“Look,” I said, adopting the most adult, accountable tone I could muster, “last night was a mistake. A reckless, impulsive, but… undeniably enjoyable mistake.”

I tried not to look at his shoulders. Not at his chest. Not at the water droplets sliding down his clavicle, tracing the path over sculpted muscle.

“I’m not going to ask you to take responsibility. I won’t call you crying about emotional trauma. I’m not that kind of girl.”

He didn’t say anything.

Seeing no reaction, I turned to the door—cue graceful exit, complete with closure monologue.

But just as my hand reached the doorknob, a warm, wet palm landed on the back of mine.

I froze. Slowly turned around.

He was looking at me with an expression I couldn’t place—somewhere between surprise and… seriousness.

“You don’t remember me?” he asked softly.

I blinked, thrown. I answered quickly, almost defensive: “Of course I do. You’re my new neighbor. Helped me find my keys the other night.”

Technically true. Totally accurate.

What I didn’t say—and never would—was that even without those trivial interactions, I remembered him.

That face was unforgettable.

Or, to be more precise, that face, standing in front of me in just a white towel, with water dripping down those abs… yeah. Not something easily erased from memory.

I swallowed hard.

The trick was: don’t look directly at him. Like an eclipse.

Too bad that strategy had completely failed.

Worse still, even though I was fully dressed and he was practically naked, somehow under his gaze, I felt like the one completely exposed.

I tried to speak—say something, anything to shift the attention.

But he didn’t ask again. He just stood there, watching me, as if waiting for the moment my real reaction would finally arrive.

The silence stretched.

Then he said, “It’s fine. Doesn’t matter.”

I blinked. What?

“Can I go now?” I asked, my voice dry. His hand still hadn’t moved.

He looked at me again, then—unhurriedly—said:

“Will you marry me?”

…

WTF?!

“You’re not serious.” I finally found my voice.

“I’m completely serious,” he replied, like he was announcing a quarterly investment plan. “I just returned to the country. My parents want me to get married as soon as possible. In their eyes, a married man means stability. And only a stable man can inherit the family business.”

I fell silent.

Two days ago, I swore I’d bring home someone better than Rhys.

Someone impressive enough to shut my parents up.

And now, the universe had delivered an answer—just with a thick layer of irony.

But I knew.

Marriage shouldn’t be like this.

I’d already lived through a love-less engagement once.

What it left behind was a house full of silence, intimacy that felt hollow, and a slow, brutal erosion of my self-respect.

I opened my mouth to say no.

But at that moment, my phone rang.

The sharp ringtone sliced through the quiet like a knife.

I glanced at the screen—and felt like a bomb had gone off in my chest.

Caroline Vance.

My mother.

Katherine was back.

She must’ve called to announce the beginning of something.

I looked at that face—familiar yet foreign—then back down at my phone.

And finally, I said the words:

“I can’t accept.”

I walked out of the hotel suite, the ringtone still shrieking behind me.

I answered not because I wanted to, but because I needed—desperately—to sever this umbilical cord that kept dragging me back into the past.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone? Were you trying to give me a stroke?”

My mother’s voice came rapid-fire, like a machine gun.

“I thought you were dead in a ditch or kidnapped by some maniac! Get home. Now. We need to talk.”

“I’m already on my way,” I said coldly, and hung up before she could launch into round two.

I gave the driver my parents’ address and collapsed into the backseat, like someone bracing for a colonoscopy without anesthesia.

Okay. Let’s get this over with.

My neighbor—aka my one-night stand—was probably insane.

But while I still had a drop of alcohol-induced courage left in my bloodstream—while the old Mira, desperate for love, hadn’t crawled back in and taken over—I had to move fast.

I had to throw this shattered mess back in their perfect little faces.

The Vance family estate sat in the kind of suburban enclave that didn’t welcome anyone who couldn’t afford a BMW. No subway stops. No bus routes. Just an elegantly phrased “keep out, poor people.”

At the wrought-iron gate, I inhaled deeply. I felt like a boxer walking into the ring. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted. Emotional armor locked and loaded.

The moment I stepped into the living room, I could smell the ambush.

My father—Franklin Vance—sat alone in his leather chair, wearing the same expression he probably used to fire underperforming hedge fund managers.

Beside him, my mother, Caroline, with her flawless hair and perfectly aligned pearl necklace, smiled the way a doctor does when saying, “The cancer’s spread.”

To their left, Rhys sat on the sofa, all solemn and brooding, as if waiting for a divorce lawyer to direct his next pose.

And on the right?

Katherine, obviously.

All we were missing was a gavel and a court reporter.

This was a trial.

I was the defendant.

And the verdict had already been written.

Mother struck first.

“What took you so long? I called you hours ago.”

She crossed her arms, her tone colder than the AC.

“Traffic,” I lied.

If I told them I’d just escaped from a man in a towel, they’d have me institutionalized.

“So? Why am I here?” My tone was sharp, iced over.

No one answered.

Not until Rhys stood, bandage still across his forehead.

The sight of him looking vaguely wounded brought me the tiniest flicker of grim satisfaction.

“You left this at my place,” he said slowly, holding something in his hand.

“Your bear alarm clock.”

I stared at it.

A cheap, scuffed electronic clock shaped like a cartoon bear, its plastic face scratched and faded from over a decade of use.

And now, this relic was their opening move?

Rage crawled up my throat, but I forced it down.

“Thanks,” I said flatly. “That’s… thoughtful.”

I snatched the ridiculous little clock and turned to leave.

Come on. No one calls a full-blown family meeting just to return a damn alarm clock. I knew better. This was about humiliation. About putting me in my place.

They were the real family.

I was always the outsider—invited in only when they needed a benchwarmer.

“Wait,” my mother said, her voice even colder than before.

I paused. Didn’t turn around.

She folded her arms again and smiled—that tight, poisonous kind of smile you only see when a doctor says “Stage four.”

“Now that Katherine’s back,” she said, “and since you and Rhys have broken up, we believe it’s time—he and Katherine should be engaged.”

I gave a short, humorless laugh. Turned around slowly, letting the sarcasm drip from my mouth.

“By all means. Plan whatever you want. Not like you’ve ever asked for my opinion before.”

“We used to ask,” she said, voice turning sharp, “back when you were still the sensible daughter. The one with potential.”

She stepped closer.

“You’re too emotional, Mira. Your insecurity made you paranoid—accusing Rhys, trying to control him. You didn’t trust him, and that’s what destroyed the relationship.”

Her words were blades.

Featherlight in tone.

Ruthless in effect.

“So this is on you.

And you’ll make that clear in the press.

Tell them you fell for someone else.

That’s why you ended the engagement.”

I froze.

Something tore inside my chest—like they’d ripped it open with their bare hands.

I looked at them, all of them—my parents, Rhys, Katherine.

So calm. So calculated.

Like a script they'd rehearsed for weeks.

What had I done to deserve this?

Where had I gone so wrong?

I was ready to explode. To storm out.

But that’s when my father finally stood.

Like a judge preparing to read the sentence.

“You don’t have to worry about finding someone new,” he said with absolute finality.

“We’ve already made arrangements—”