"I don't need you to do it for me." I spun on my heel to leave.

Owen tried to follow, but caught his foot on a chair and stumbled. I stepped out and flagged down a cab on the street.

"Ma'am, where to?"

"Anywhere. Just keep the meter running for the day." I pulled out my phone and paid through the app.

Messages bombarded my screen. I swiped past Owen's. One from Cecilia Morales caught my eye: "Esme, I'm in the lab and stuck on a calculation. Can you come help me?"

Ten minutes later, I got out of the cab. Cecilia was waiting at the door, just like old times—smiling, eager, a little too considerate.

"Esme, let me take your bag," she offered, reaching out.

I walked right past her. Her hand hung awkwardly in the air before she let it drop.

"I'm not your sister. Stop calling me that." I used to think of her as a little sister. God, how wrong I was.

Inside the lab, my phone kept buzzing. I glanced at it. More messages from Owen. The last one read: "Don't hurt her. She's young and naive. I'm on my way."

Cecilia handed me a data report. I didn't take it. Didn't even look at it. She just stood there, holding it out.

A long moment passed before she lowered it, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. "You know it was me, don't you?"

"Cecilia, have I been too hard on you? Or maybe too soft? Soft enough that you actually thought you could take what's mine?"

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her voice trembled as she sobbed, "Esme, you've always been so good to me. I've been so grateful."

"But I couldn't control what I felt. Every time I came to your house, I had to force myself not to look at Owen."

"And the more I fought it, the deeper I fell."

"I'm sorry. Punish me however you want."

I closed my eyes, pressing my fingers to my temples. "It takes two to tango."

"I'm not going to berate you. I just hope you don't look back on this and regret it."

"I'll get in touch with the university and arrange a different advisor for you."

As I walked out, I nearly collided with Owen, who'd just burst in. My nose slammed into his chest—sharp, stinging pain.

I gripped the doorframe to steady myself. Owen's gaze shot past me, landing on Cecilia. His face darkened. He stormed over and pulled her behind him like a shield.

"Esme, I told you, this isn't her fault!"

"You think it's something to be proud of, intimidating a young girl?"

"Then it's your fault," I said flatly. "Is stringing girls along what makes you proud?"

He froze, jaw tight, the veins in his arms bulging from sheer restraint.

Cecilia placed a hand on his arm, her voice shaking. "Owen, don't fight because of me."

"My education, my future—none of that matters. As long as you're okay."

A sudden heat surged through my nose. Bright red blood started to drip—probably from the collision earlier. I fumbled in my bag for a tissue and pressed it under my nose.

Owen didn't see. Or maybe he didn't want to. This wasn't the man who used to worry himself sick if I so much as sneezed.

"Esme, are you really ending your mentorship with Cecilia over this? You're threatening her?"

"Don't mix personal feelings with work!"

"This is a girl's future we're talking about! Are you determined to ruin her?"

Ruin her?

Ten years ago, when I was picking my college major, everyone told me to think about my future. But I chose love.

Owen held me that day, tears in his eyes, vowing I'd never lose out.

Now I've lost everything.

"There'll be a better advisor to guide her," I said, my voice barely steady.

"I won't teach her anymore. I can't."

"You're right. I brought this on myself. Never again."

My legs turned to lead as I turned to leave, but the world tilted—and everything went dark. In the last second before I lost consciousness, I fell into a familiar, warm embrace.

Just like when I was eighteen.

He held me tight.

When I came to, my parents were already at my bedside, worry etched all over their faces. "Owen mentioned you've been running yourself ragged with the wedding prep, which is why you fainted," my mom said softly. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

My parents are in their sixties now, gray streaking through their hair. They both have chronic health issues—even a short flight of stairs leaves them winded. I managed a weak smile. "I'm fine. I've got it handled."

Owen cracked open the window to let in some fresh air and placed a plate of freshly cut pears on the nightstand. His voice was calm, almost soothing. "Davina, Esme just woke up. She needs her rest. I'll drive you home now, and once she's feeling better, we'll come back for a visit." He caught my gaze for just a fraction of a second before looking away, closing the door quietly behind them.

My students were blowing up the group chat, saying they wanted to come see me. After sending them my location, I sank back into the cold, unwelcoming hospital bed. I've always had poor circulation—my hands and feet stay icy no matter the season. Every night, I used to warm them against Owen's stomach. I can't pinpoint when he started coming home later and later—maybe six months ago. Maybe longer. It didn't matter anymore. I'd gotten used to the comfort of a hot water bottle, and I no longer needed him.

Cecilia lingered at the back of the student group, clutching a bouquet. Someone nudged her forward. "Go on, Cecilia! You're Esme's favorite student—seeing you will totally lift her spirits and speed up her recovery."

She hesitated, then stepped forward to set the flowers on the table. "Professor Robertson, get well soon."

It was a bouquet of white lilies. I'd seen them in Owen's online order history. I thought he'd planned to give them to me on our wedding day because they matched my dress perfectly. As soon as they left, I threw the flowers in the trash. I didn't want anything that wasn't truly mine.

I stood by the window, taking deep breaths, when I spotted Cecilia alone at the hospital entrance. Owen showed up shortly after. She practically leapt into his arms, rising on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He smiled, pulling her closer and kissing her back.

A sharp cramp twisted through my stomach. I doubled over beside the trash can, retching until there was nothing left but bile. Owen walked in just as I was straightening up.

"Why did you throw away the flowers?" he asked, reaching to help me up. "I went out to get your favorite stew. Have some—it'll settle your stomach."

I pulled away from his touch. "Don't. We're done."

"Since when did I agree to a breakup?"

"So what's your plan? Juggle two women? Spend Monday, Wednesday, and Friday with her, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday with me, and use the leftover day for your so-called friends?"

Irritation crept into his voice, edged with anger. "Esme, you're being completely unreasonable!"

"Then what's your solution, Owen?"

He took a deep breath. "I'll try to end things with her—focus on us. We've been together for nine years. I know what matters."

I dumped the steaming stew into the trash can. "Try? So there's a chance you'll fail and end up right back in her arms?"

Owen growled in frustration. "Esme! Why do you have to be so aggressive? Everything I say sets you off!"

While he yelled at me, I found myself drifting. For nine years, he'd never raised his voice at me. No matter how rough life got, even mashed potatoes tasted like heaven. Now, even with an actual feast set before me, everything tasted like nothing.

Owen slammed the door on his way out. I flinched. I've always been jumpy—easily startled by loud noises, ever since I could remember. He knew that. But he'd forgotten. Again.

I logged onto the university forum and, under an anonymous account, posted the photo of their embrace.