I found myself staring at my phone screen, thumb hovering over Sloane's Instagram profile. Again.

It had started as a casual check—just a glance to see what Warren's assistant was up to. But now, three hours later, I was deep in her digital footprint, scrolling through carefully curated photos that told a story I wasn't sure I wanted to read.

"Another late night at the best coffee shop in town," read the caption under a photo of Sloane and Warren closing up the shop. His arm was draped casually around her shoulders, her head tilted toward him in comfortable intimacy. The timestamp showed 11:42 PM. Last Tuesday. When Warren had texted me he was "working late" but would "make it up to me this weekend."

I scrolled further, my stomach knotting tighter with each image.

"Only the best teacher would stay this late to show me the ropes," Sloane had written under a photo of them sharing a pastry at the counter. Warren's laugh lines were visible, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way they used to when he looked at me.

Then I found it—the post that made my breath catch. Sloane wearing Warren's jacket, the one I'd given him for his birthday last year. It hung loosely on her frame, sleeves rolled up to reveal delicate wrists adorned with silver bracelets.

"Some people just know how to take care of you," the caption read. "Grateful for my coffee shop guardian angel."

The comments below were filled with heart emojis from mutual friends. Warren had liked the post.

"Warren," I said that evening, turning my phone toward him as we sat on his couch. "Can you explain these?"

He barely glanced at the screen before his expression hardened. "You're stalking my employee now?"

"I'm not stalking anyone. I'm trying to understand why your assistant is posting pictures of you two looking like—"

"Like what?" he cut in sharply. "Like coworkers who get along? Jesus, Elisa. These are just social media posts. People exaggerate everything online for likes."

"But she's wearing your jacket," I pressed, my voice smaller than I intended.

"And? I left it at the shop. She was cold. It's not a big deal." Warren ran his hands through his hair, exasperation radiating from every movement. "This is exactly what I mean about you creating drama where none exists."

---

The envelope sat on my desk for three days before I finally opened it.

The London School of Economics letterhead gleamed under my desk lamp as I read the words twice, three times, making sure they were real.

"Congratulations, Ms. Marshall. We are pleased to offer you admission to our International Business Program beginning this fall..."

I had applied on a whim months ago, back when Warren and I were still Warren and I—before Sloane, before the coffee shop named after me became a place where I felt like an outsider.

When I finally told Warren over dinner, I expected excitement. Maybe even pride.

Instead, his first response was: "How will the shop manage without your bookkeeping skills?"

I set down my fork, the metal clinking against the plate. "I think Macy might be able to help with that."

"Right, but Sloane's still learning the system," he continued, oblivious to my deflating spirits. "This is going to complicate things for her. She's already juggling so much."

Not once did he ask about my dreams. Not once did he say congratulations.

That night, lying awake beside him, I realized with startling clarity that Warren saw me as staff—valuable, perhaps even essential, but ultimately replaceable. Not as the love of his life.

---

"I'm taking the London offer," I announced the following morning, watching Warren's coffee mug freeze halfway to his lips.

"What? But we haven't even discussed this properly," he said, setting the mug down with unnecessary force.

"There's nothing to discuss. It's an incredible opportunity."

Warren's expression shifted from surprise to panic. He reached across the table for my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine in a gesture that once made my heart race.

"Elisa, I know things have been... tense lately," he began, his voice softening to the tone he used when trying to placate me. "But we can work through this. I'll set clearer boundaries with Sloane. We can start couples therapy. Maybe even plan that trip to Italy you've always wanted before you leave."

His promises tumbled out like stones rolling downhill, gathering momentum and desperation.

"I mean it," he insisted when I remained silent. "You're my number one. You've always been my number one."

For a moment—just a moment—I allowed myself to believe him. To imagine that things could return to how they were before. That the Warren who built a coffee shop in my name still existed somewhere beneath the surface of this man who couldn't see what was happening right in front of him.

"Okay," I whispered, not quite a promise but not a rejection either.

Warren's relief was palpable as he squeezed my hand. But as I looked into his eyes, searching for the certainty I once found there, all I saw was the reflection of my own doubt.

The weekend getaway had been planned for months. A cozy cabin by the lake, just Warren and me—our first real break since Sloane started working at the coffee shop. I'd packed my bags the night before, carefully selecting outfits for hiking, swimming, and lazy evenings by the fireplace.

"I'm really looking forward to this," I told Warren over breakfast, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach that had become my constant companion. "Just the two of us, away from everything."

His phone buzzed. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession.

"Sorry," he muttered, glancing at the screen. His expression changed instantly. "It's Sloane."

Of course it was.

"Sloane's called in sick," he announced, already reaching for his laptop. "She can't make it today or tomorrow."

I set down my coffee cup carefully. "What's wrong with her?"

"Stomach bug, I think. Anyway, I can't leave the shop understaffed. You know how busy weekends get."

The cabin keys felt heavy in my pocket. "We have reservations, Warren. Non-refundable ones."

"We'll reschedule," he said, not looking up from his screen. "This is an emergency."

An hour later, after Warren had rushed off to "save the shop," I found myself scrolling through Instagram, my thumb moving almost unconsciously to Sloane's profile.

There she was—radiant in a spa robe, surrounded by friends at the Heavenly Retreat Day Spa. The caption read: "Nothing better than a girls' day when you need to recharge! #blessed #selfcare #spa day"

The timestamp showed 10:17 AM. Today. The same day she'd called in sick with a stomach bug.

When Warren came home that evening, I was waiting with my phone in hand.

"Explain this," I said, showing him the post.

His face went through a series of expressions—surprise, guilt, then defensiveness. "She must have felt better by afternoon."

"She lied to you, Warren. She manipulated you into canceling our weekend."

"No, she didn't. She was genuinely sick this morning. People recover, Elisa."

"And the timing is just coincidence? The one weekend we had planned for months?"

He sighed, rubbing his temples. "You're trying to get her fired because you're jealous. It's not attractive."

---

The pattern established itself over the next week.

"I'll call you tonight," Warren promised Monday morning, kissing me goodbye.

By midnight, no call.

Tuesday: "I'll check in after we close."

No call.

Wednesday: "I promise I'll call this time."

I waited by my phone until 2 AM.

Each time, the same excuse: "Sloane needed help with inventory." "Teaching Sloane the new brewing technique." "Sloane had questions about the books."

But when Sloane texted him during our rare date night at the Italian restaurant—I saw her name light up his screen—he responded immediately, fingers flying across the keyboard.

"Work emergency," he mumbled, not meeting my eyes.

I watched him type, watched him smile at whatever she'd sent. Then I watched him put his phone away and reach for my hand across the table, as if nothing had happened.

---

"You're not even trying anymore," I said Thursday evening, staring at the dark screen of my phone. No missed calls. No texts.

"I've been busy," Warren replied, not looking up from his laptop. "The shop needs—"

"Don't." I held up my hand. "Just don't."

Friday afternoon, Macy showed up at the coffee shop with a surprise lunch for me—her way of checking in after I'd canceled our girls' night twice in a row.

"I thought you might need this," she said, setting down a bag from my favorite sandwich place. "You look exhausted."

I managed a weak smile. "Just busy with—"

My words died as I turned toward the counter where Warren was working with Sloane. She was holding a small plate with a pastry on it, feeding him a bite. Her fingers lingered at his lips as she laughed at something he'd said, her body angled toward him in a way that spoke of intimacy and comfort.

Warren's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled back at her—the same smile that used to be reserved for me.

Macy's hand touched my arm. "Elisa..."

I couldn't tear my eyes away from them. "I know."

"Has it been like this long?"

I nodded slowly, feeling something final shift inside me.

Macy pulled me into a corner booth, away from Warren's line of sight. "You need to talk to him."

"We've talked. He doesn't see it." My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears.

"Then maybe you need to see it," Macy said gently. "This isn't healthy, Elisa."

I looked back at Warren and Sloane, their heads bent together over something on the counter, and finally said the words aloud: "I think our relationship is falling apart."

Saying it made it real in a way thinking it never had.

And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.