“Talia,” he said softly, like he was greeting someone he missed.
I didn’t sit near him. I sat at the opposite end, took out my folder, and waited.
When they called his name, he stood like he was about to give a speech. He launched into a story about how he’d done “contract work” and “social media management” and “assistant responsibilities,” and I watched the hearing officer’s face slowly shift from neutral to skeptical.
Then they asked for documentation.
Adrien’s confidence flickered. “I mean, it was informal,” he said. “Because we were dating.”
“So you were not employed,” the officer said, flat.
Adrien tried again. “I contributed. Emotionally. I supported her.”
The officer blinked like her brain was deciding whether to engage.
“Sir,” she said, “this is not a relationship court.”
Jonah’s hand rested lightly on my knee under the table, steadying without taking over. He didn’t look at Adrien. He didn’t need to.
When it was my turn, I stood, swore to tell the truth, and did exactly that.
I explained that I do not own a business. I explained that Adrien was never employed by me. I explained that I received a call from someone impersonating the unemployment office and recorded it, then called the real office to report potential fraud.
I didn’t add emotional commentary. I didn’t mention the Free Food name. I didn’t describe the birthday dinner meltdown. None of that was necessary.
Adrien tried to interrupt twice.
“Talia is vindictive,” he said. “She’s doing this because she’s mad I left her.”
The hearing officer turned to him. “Sir, do not speak while she is giving testimony.”
Adrien’s face flushed. “But she’s lying.”
The officer’s tone sharpened. “Do you have any evidence she is lying?”
Adrien opened his mouth, then closed it.
Because evidence had never been his strength.
By the end, the decision was exactly what you’d expect: repayment required, penalties upheld, claim denied, warning issued. There was no dramatic gavel slam, just the quiet sound of accountability being written down.
Outside the building, Adrien followed me into the hallway.
“Talia, please,” he said, voice cracking on purpose. “You don’t have to be like this.”
I turned, not angry, just tired.
“I’m not being like anything,” I said. “I’m being accurate.”
His eyes flashed. “You think you’re better than me.”
I considered that.
“I think you had chances to be better,” I said. “And you didn’t take them.”
For a second, his face twisted into something close to real rage, like the mask had slipped. Then he smoothed it back into wounded.
“You’re cold,” he whispered.
“No,” I said. “I’m done.”
Jonah stepped slightly closer, not threatening, just present. Adrien’s gaze flicked to him, assessing, looking for a weakness.
“You upgraded fast,” Adrien sneered.
Jonah didn’t react. He just said, “Leave her alone.”
Adrien scoffed, but he backed away anyway, because bullies don’t like rooms where they’re not in control.
On the drive home, Jonah asked, “How do you feel?”
I thought about it, watching the city blur past the window.
“Like I closed a file,” I said. “Not like I won a war.”
Jonah nodded like he understood exactly.
That night, I slept deeply, not because everything was perfect, but because for the first time in a long time, Adrien’s chaos had nowhere left to land.
Part 8
The hospital sees every kind of story, but it has a special category for people like Adrien: the ones who treat suffering like a performance and attention like oxygen.
It didn’t take long after the hearing for him to try again—this time through the court of public opinion, because he’d learned official systems didn’t reward charm the way Instagram did.
He resurrected the TikTok account with a new angle: “Surviving financial abuse as a man.”
The videos were slicker now. Better lighting. Scripted pauses. Carefully chosen words like trauma and healing.
He didn’t mention my name at first. He didn’t have to. In a small city, people connect dots like it’s a hobby.
Then he got bolder.
He posted a video about “a nurse who thinks she can ruin a man’s life,” which was funny because I’m not a nurse, and also because he never once apologized for literally calling me Free Food.
Enzo sent it to me with one message: He’s back on his nonsense.
I watched ten seconds and turned it off.
“Do you want to report it?” Jonah asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “I want to see if he trips.”
He did.
He always did.
A week later, he posted a “receipt” video where he tried to show how “abusers manipulate.” He held up a printed screenshot of my text: I canceled it last Thursday, right after you renamed me Free Food.
He tried to frame it like proof I was cruel.
But the comments didn’t go the way he wanted.
Wait, he renamed you Free Food?
So he used you for money?
That’s not abuse, that’s consequences.
And my personal favorite: Free Food was accurate. You told on yourself.
Adrien tried to delete the video. But someone saved it. Someone reposted it. Someone stitched it with a slow zoom and the caption: When the villain posts the evidence.
The internet is brutal, but it’s also weirdly fair when someone hands it clear documentation.
I didn’t celebrate. I didn’t gloat.
I just kept living.
The bigger change wasn’t what Adrien did. It was what I did next.
At work, a younger tech named Lacey started crying in the supply closet.
I found her by accident—going in to grab gauze and hearing the soft, shaky breathing that meant someone was trying not to be heard.
I didn’t rush her. I just said, “Hey. It’s me. You okay?”
She wiped her face fast. “Yeah. Just… dumb boyfriend stuff.”
I leaned against the shelf. “Want to tell me?”
She hesitated, then blurted it out like ripping off a bandage: her boyfriend kept “joking” that she was lucky he stayed with her because she “wasn’t that interesting.” He’d started calling her “Uber” because she always drove. He’d “teased” that she was basically his backup plan.
I listened, and something in my chest tightened—not with pain, with recognition.
When she finished, she looked at me like she expected me to tell her how to fix him.
I didn’t.
I said, “He’s practicing on you.”
She blinked. “What?”