Chapter 1: The Last Straw

“How many times do I have to explain this to you? Derek is my close friend. We grew up together—practically wore matching Halloween costumes as kids. He’s my investor now, too. What’s so wrong about grabbing drinks with him? You seriously think I’d cheat on you with Derek? Come on, Caleb. Give me a break.”

Rachel’s voice was scratchy and sharp, the way it always got after a night out, and she barely looked up from the Gatorade bottle in her hand. Exhaustion shimmered under her stubborn glare. Outside, the city buzzed with the last trails of Friday nightlife, but our apartment was thick with a silence that felt like thunderclouds waiting to burst.

“If anything were ever going to happen between us, it would’ve happened ages ago. Where would that leave you?”

Still half-drunk, Rachel’s eyes flashed with impatience.

I sat on the sofa, heavy with gloom after waiting up all night for her. The clock on the wall read 7:10 a.m. I’d watched every hour crawl by, the TV flickering with silent infomercials, bathing the room in weird, washed-out light. My coffee was ice cold, forgotten. It was the third time this month Rachel hadn’t come home, and I was getting used to how empty the hallway sounded without her footsteps.

How many times had Rachel not come home? I’d lost count.

“It was just a drink.”

I opened the photo on my phone and slid it across the table to her.

Derek had sent it to me in the middle of the night.

There they were, tangled up on a messy hotel bed—Rachel curled against Derek, too close to call it innocent.

And as if that wasn’t enough, he’d sent a message: [If I want her, she’s mine.]

He deleted it in under thirty seconds, but I was faster—I took a screenshot.

My stomach lurched. All the trust we’d built felt like it was dissolving, replaced by something raw and ugly. Was this really happening, or was I just being paranoid? My hand shook as I swiped open the image. The hotel’s bland taupe comforter, Rachel’s hair spilling across the pillow, Derek’s arm slung way too close—it all looked damning. A metallic taste crept up my throat, the kind you get when your whole world flips upside down.

“Yeah, you two are such good friends that you can drink together and end up sharing a hotel bed.”

Rachel picked up the phone, saw the photo, and her face went paper white.

The proof was right there. Last night, Rachel had actually gotten a room with him at a hotel.

A hollow ache echoed in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I waited for her to say something—anything—that would make this less humiliating, less final.

I swallowed the heartache, my eyes clouded with disappointment. “So, even now, you’re going to argue there’s nothing between you two?”

Seeing my look, Rachel’s impatience faded. She twisted the Gatorade cap, knuckles white, eyes darting between the photo and my face. She hesitated, looking away, pacing once, visibly shaken before she finally sat down next to me. She took my hand, her voice trembling and soft:

“I blacked out from drinking. Derek didn’t know my address, so he took me to a hotel. He was worried and stayed with me all night. Nothing happened, I swear. Look—my clothes are all intact in the photo…”

Her palm was cold, fingers trembling as she tried to sound convincing. The apartment still smelled faintly of her perfume and last night’s takeout—sharp, greasy, and a little too familiar. Her expensive scent felt like a wall between us. I wanted to believe her—God, I wanted to believe her so badly.

“You got drunk, refused to let me pick you up, but went to a hotel with another man. Do you really think that’s appropriate?”

I cut off her explanation.

Rachel’s expression iced over, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. “So you just don’t trust me. If you doubt my loyalty, then there’s no point in getting married.”

As soon as she said it, Rachel seemed to realize the words were out. Panic flickered across her face and she bit her lip. “Caleb, that’s not what I meant—”

She reached for my hand again, but I pulled away, my shoulders stiff. The word ‘marriage’ hung between us like a loaded gun, louder than the city outside.

“Alright.”

Rachel froze.

She stared at me, stunned. “What did you say?”

I looked her in the eye. “Let’s not get married.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, her hand jerking, knocking over her Gatorade bottle. It rolled across the floor, forgotten. Her mouth opened and closed, searching for a script, but I could see it—she was out of lines. For once, I wasn’t going to give her any.

She went silent for two seconds, then her sneer returned. “Are you serious? You won’t regret this?”

Rachel clearly didn’t believe me. Maybe because we’d threatened to break up so many times and always gotten back together, she thought this was just another round.

I repeated, steady:

“Yeah. Let’s not get married. Let’s break up.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than the ring I still wore on my finger.