At two in the morning, Scarlett sent me photos.
The first: Rocco on one knee in the plaza below his office building, holding a bouquet of white roses and gazing up lovingly at the building’s facade.
The second: A silhouette of them running in the moonlight, her in a white dress, him chasing after her.
The third: A candid shot from that very afternoon, of them embracing in his office.
I put down my phone and walked to the window.
In the distance, the commercial tower was still ablaze with light, the show still playing on a loop.
So that was it.
What my colleagues thought was an “anniversary surprise” was actually Rocco’s public declaration of love for Scarlett.
I picked up my phone and replied: “Congratulations.”
Then I blocked her number.
Eight days until my flight.
The next morning, I received a mass message from Rocco’s assistant: “The Alpha is participating in a five-day, inter-pack hunting competition. He’ll be out of contact.”
Five days.
Just enough time for me to handle everything.
I called a moving company immediately.
“You want everything moved?” one of the movers asked.
“Everything that’s mine,” I said, pointing to the boxes I had already packed. “This is all of it.”
Six years of a relationship, all packed away into a dozen cardboard boxes.
The irony was bitter.
“What about the furniture and decorations?” the mover asked, gesturing to the loveseat and the photos on the wall.
I glanced at the pieces I had once so carefully chosen, each one a vessel for my hopes for our home.
“Leave them.”
Those things belonged to “us.” Now that “we” no longer existed, they were meaningless.
After the moving truck drove away, I stood in the empty den for one last look.
Then I closed the door and walked away without looking back.
