Fix this.
As if my existence was a customer service department.
Then, at 7:56: Adrien: Selene isn’t picking up. She said she had a guy coming. I can’t pay. I need you.
A flicker of satisfaction hit me—not joy. Not cruelty. Just the natural consequence of a man building his life on other people’s money finally running into a wall.
I didn’t respond.
At 8:01: Adrien: If you don’t answer, I swear to God, Talia, I’ll tell everyone what you did.
At 8:05: Adrien: I can’t believe you’re doing this. You’re literally trying to humiliate me.
I set my phone down.
Enzo watched me. “What’s the emergency?”
“His card got declined,” I said.
Enzo blinked, then barked a laugh. “That’s not an emergency. That’s adulthood.”
I sipped my sparkling water. “He wanted a five-course tasting menu on my dime. He got Applebee’s on his.”
Enzo lifted his drink in a toast. “To reality.”
The next morning, I woke up to war.
Not physical war. Social war. The kind that happens when someone weaponizes other people’s opinions.
The first voicemail was from his mother at 7:12 a.m.
Her tone was sharp and theatrical, like she’d practiced it in the mirror. “How dare you abandon my son on his birthday? Do you have any idea what kind of emotional damage you’ve caused? You should be ashamed of yourself.”
His sister followed, younger than Adrien but louder, meaner: “You’re emotionally abusive. This is classic manipulation. Honestly, I always thought something was off about you.”
Selene left a voicemail that was forty-five seconds of pure screaming. No words. Just rage and breath and the sound of someone unraveling.
I didn’t respond.
Because while they were busy rewriting the story, Adrien was already performing it publicly.
Enzo sent screenshots while I was making coffee.
Adrien’s Instagram story was a masterpiece of selective reality.
Story one: him crying into his phone, perfect lighting, birthday outfit on, text overlay: When you realize your partner of two years is a narcissist.
Story two: a photo of an empty candlelit table at a fancy-looking restaurant. Not Maison Blue. Just a stock-looking table with candles.
Caption: Some people choose pettiness over love.
Story three: black screen, white text: I deserve better energy.
Story four: him at Applebee’s again, five friends in a booth, smiling like they were auditioning for happiness.
Caption: Real ones showed up. Don’t need toxic people.
I stared at the screen and felt something settle. Not anger. Not heartbreak.
Certainty.
Part 3
Around noon, Enzo texted again.
He’s at your hospital.
I didn’t even have time to respond before my charge nurse appeared at the desk where I was reviewing the day’s schedule.
“Talia,” she said, expression tight, “there’s a man in the lobby asking for you. He’s very emotional.”
Of course he was.
Adrien loved an audience.
I handed my clipboard to a coworker, walked to the lobby, and found him sitting in a chair like a collapsed statue—head in his hands, shoulders shaking just enough to draw attention. People were looking. A volunteer with a candy cart had paused like she didn’t know if she should offer him a mint.
When he saw me, he stood up dramatically, eyes glassy.
“Baby,” he said, voice cracking. “Please, let me explain.”
I didn’t stop walking. I didn’t soften my face.
He followed anyway, matching my pace like he thought proximity could rewrite reality.
“It was just talk,” he said quickly. “You know how Selene is. She brings out the worst in me. I didn’t mean any of it.”
“So you didn’t rename me in your phone?” I asked, not raising my voice.
He froze for half a second, the tiniest delay where the truth almost showed.
“I—I was drunk,” he stammered.
“At three in the afternoon on a Thursday,” I said.
He wiped his eyes. “I was stressed about my birthday. You know how much my birthday means to me.”
“That’s not an argument,” I said, still walking.
Security approached—two guards moving with calm efficiency. One of them, a man with kind eyes and a no-nonsense posture, stepped closer.
“Ma’am,” he said quietly, “do you want him removed?”
Adrien panicked. “No, no,” he blurted, voice rising. “She’s my fiancée. She’s having a mental breakdown and I’m just trying to help.”
The guard looked at me, then at Adrien, then back at me. His expression didn’t change.
“Ma’am,” he said calmly, “you look pretty stable to me. He’s the one crying in a hospital lobby.”
I nodded once. “Yes. Please escort him out.”
Adrien’s face twisted. “Talia—Talia, don’t do this,” he shouted as the guards moved in. “I’ll change. I’ll block Selene. I’ll go to therapy. I’ll do whatever you want.”
He said it like therapy was a gift he was offering me, like changing was a favor.
The guards guided him toward the doors. Adrien tried to resist without fully resisting, like he wanted to look oppressed but not get tackled.
As the glass doors closed behind him, I felt something I hadn’t expected.
Relief.
Not triumph. Not revenge.
Just the relief of not being responsible for someone else’s selfishness anymore.
I went back to my shift, scanned patients, smiled at coworkers, did my job. Because that’s the thing about being in healthcare: you learn how to compartmentalize. You learn how to keep your hands steady while your life is falling apart.
But the universe wasn’t done.
Because remember Preston—the investment banker Adrien had been talking about like a prize?
Turns out Preston was Enzo’s cousin.
Enzo figured it out when he saw Adrien’s meltdown online and recognized the name. He called Preston immediately, and Preston, apparently an absolute legend, sent screenshots.
Adrien had already messaged him.
Already told him they were “recently single.”
Already painted me as controlling, threatened by his “success,” emotionally unstable, the kind of girlfriend who “never let him go out with friends.”
I almost laughed at that one.
I’d encouraged nights out. Paid for Ubers. Asked him to have fun.
The irony burned.
Preston decided to have a little fun.
He invited Adrien to a fancy rooftop bar, told him to dress up, said it was special. Adrien showed up in a four-hundred-dollar outfit I was ninety-nine percent sure he planned to return. He waited, and waited, and finally texted: Where are you?