Chapter 3

Elinore POV:

I took a deep, shuddering breath, the phone cool against my ear. The silence on the other end was a canvas for all the memories, all the pain, but this time, it felt like a door closing, not trapping me, but setting me free. A wave of exhaustion washed over me, but beneath it, a strange lightness bloomed. It was done. Truly done.

Later that evening, at the competition's celebratory dinner, the clinking of glasses and cheerful chatter washed over me. My colleagues toasted my success, their smiles genuine, their praise a warm blanket. But even amidst the congratulations, a part of me felt detached, adrift.

I excused myself to the ladies' room, needing a moment of quiet. As I washed my hands, my phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. It was Carter. He' d posted a picture.

My fingers, almost against my will, tapped it open. It was a selfie. Carter, his arm draped casually around Brittney. She was leaning into him, her head resting on his shoulder, a soft, adoring smile on her face. Their faces were pressed close, a picture of perfect, cozy intimacy.

The caption read: "Finally found peace with the one who truly understands me. Some people are just meant to be. #Soulmate #Forever."

My breath hitched. Soulmate? Forever? The words were a punch to the gut, but not in the way they might have been weeks ago. Now, it was a dull ache, a confirmation of what I already knew. They looked so natural together. So...right. A perverse thought flickered through my mind: They actually make a pretty good couple.

Brittney had already commented, "Couldn't agree more, my love. Always and forever."

I almost laughed. It was all so performative, so desperate, so them. Back when Carter and I first started dating, he used to preach about sharing. "Elinore," he'd say, his eyes earnest, "sharing our lives, our dreams, our smallest joys and biggest fears, that's the bedrock of real love. We tell each other everything, right? No secrets, no holding back."

He'd wanted to know every detail of my day, every thought in my head. And I, naive and head-over-heels, had given it all. I' d reveled in it, believing that this open, boundless sharing was a sign of a love that would last forever. I' d share a joke I heard, a frustrating moment at work, a new idea for a project. He'd listen, or pretend to, and I felt seen, heard, loved.

But somewhere along the way, Brittney had slithered into that sacred space. Suddenly, my stories were met with a distracted nod, a quick "uh-huh." My frustrations were "overdramatic." My triumphs were "lucky" or "not a big deal." And his life? His life became an open book only to Brittney. His bad days were hers to soothe. His small wins were hers to celebrate. My sharing desire for him had withered and died, replaced by a deep-seated weariness.

"Elinore? You okay in there?" My colleague, Sarah, called from outside the door. "They're about to cut the cake!"

"Coming!" I quickly locked my phone, pushing the intrusive image of Carter and Brittney away. I wasn't going to let them ruin this night. This was my night.

Back at the table, a photographer was rounding up everyone for a group photo. I smiled, letting my colleagues pull me into their excited cluster. Laughter erupted as the flash went off. I saw the photo pop up on social media minutes later, tagged in it by a dozen friends. My smile was bright, but I consciously decided not to repost it on my own feed. No need to feed the beast.

As if on cue, another notification flashed across my screen. Brittney again. This time, it was a story. A short video. It started with Carter's back, shirtless, as he put on a shirt. Then, it zoomed in on her hand, resting possessively on his bare lower back before quickly pulling away. The caption: "Just a normal Tuesday morning with my favorite person. Some bonds are just meant to be unbreakable. Feels good to finally be home."

Home. She was living with him. My old apartment. My stomach churned. She was rubbing it in, twisting the knife. She had been doing this for months, subtly at first, then more overtly. Pictures of her cooking in my kitchen, leaving behind her hair ties, "accidentally" forgetting her perfume on my dresser. She thought I hadn't noticed. She thought I was blind.

And Carter? He was either oblivious or complicit. Probably both. He always saw Brittney as the helpless victim, the one who needed saving. He never saw her as the calculating puppet master she was. He never saw how she systematically dismantled our relationship, brick by painful brick.

My phone buzzed again, a new message. Carter. "Elinore, about your stuff. When are you coming to get it? Brittney wants to get settled."

I stared at the message, a cold fury building in my chest. Brittney wants to get settled. Not we, not I. It was always Brittney. I didn't reply. I just locked the screen.

Then, a second message from him came through. This time, it was a picture. A picture of my favorite mug, the one I' d bought on our first trip together, sitting on my kitchen counter. Brittney's hand, adorned with a delicate ring I' d seen her wear before, was wrapped around it, her perfectly manicured thumb resting right where mine used to.

My blood ran cold. That mug. It was a small thing, but it was mine. It held memories, quiet mornings, shared smiles. And now, her hand, her ring, desecrating it. A wave of possessive anger, hot and sharp, washed over me. This wasn't just about a mug. It was about her invading every last corner of my life, my space, my memories.

Before I could react, another message. A text. "Elinore, you really should come get your things. Brittney's starting to feel uncomfortable with your stuff around."

Uncomfortable? My jaw clenched. This was a deliberate provocation. She was baiting me. And Carter, spineless as ever, was her messenger.

Then, the final message. A video. My heart lurched, a sickening premonition twisting my gut. I didn't want to open it. I knew, with a dreadful certainty, that whatever was in that video would be worse than anything she had posted before. But a primal fear, cold and heavy, compelled me. My thumb, trembling slightly, pressed play.