Chapter 1: The Slap That Changed Everything

Jason and I share a two-bedroom rental in Maple Heights—a suburb that’s more faded Target sign than white picket fence, but it’s ours.

The radiator rattles every morning at six, and the hallway always smells faintly of burnt toast from the neighbor across the hall. Our place isn’t anything fancy—a mid-rise walk-up off the main drag. Maple Heights is lined with old trees and patched sidewalks, a little rough but familiar. You get used to the rhythm: the whine of leaf blowers in fall, the bitter edge of coffee from the corner shop, kids thundering through the halls toward the laundry room. We painted the living room a warm blue, looped twinkle lights around the windows, and called it home.

Lately, Jason’s been slipping out early and stumbling in late. Sometimes, I’d check the time on my phone and pretend he’d just texted, just so the silence didn’t feel so loud.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t eat at me—the way his coffee mug always sat in the sink, the unanswered texts stacking up like unpaid bills. It’s the kind of thing you notice on a Thursday night, when the world is hushed and the only thing moving is the clock on the microwave. Suddenly, you wonder if this is just what life is now.

One night, anger snapped inside me and I slapped him.

My palm stung, and a hush like a blackout dropped over the room. Jason stared at me, wide-eyed, as if I’d just cut the last wire holding us together. My heart hammered, but it was too late—not just for the slap, but for all the months of resentment behind it.

*The male lead was just about to take the engagement ring out of his pocket, but got slapped by the supporting female character.*

*If only the supporting female character could be a little more patient and understanding, the massive fortune the male lead will earn in the future wouldn’t end up with the female lead.*

*With that one slap, the male lead’s last shred of dignity is gone. From now on, the two will go their separate ways...*

The universe heckled me—my own mind, piping up with a running commentary, as cruel and insistent as an online mob. My jaw tightened. I winced, the words cutting deeper than I wanted to admit.

I closed my eyes and, with the back of my hand, slapped him again.

The sound cracked through the room, sharp as a starter’s pistol. My hand trembled, the sour taste of adrenaline on my tongue. Even through the anger, I wondered who I’d become—someone who believed hurt could solve anything.

My hand hovered, torn between apology and anger, but the ache in my chest won out. I struck again before I could stop myself.

"What’s in your pocket?" I demanded, my voice catching. For a split second, a flash of suspicion darted through me. Had he been hiding something from me all along? My mind raced through every late night, every half-finished conversation.

Jason looked up, lips drawn into a tight line. He always got that shut-down look when he didn’t want to react—blue eyes stormy, jaw locked. His face was pale, except for the two flaming handprints I’d left. It made my stomach twist.

He kept his hands at his sides, jaw clenched, eyes shining with a hurt I’d never seen before. Even then, I noticed his hands shaking just a little, like he was barely keeping it together.

I flexed my hand, numb and aching, and repeated, "What’s in your pocket?"

My voice cracked. In a movie, I’d sound tough, but right then I just sounded exhausted—like a teacher out of patience with her favorite student.

*LOL, does the supporting female character really think the male lead will still propose after this?*

*No worries, our female lead will be there soon to comfort the male lead.*

*If the supporting female character didn’t keep looking for trouble, she wouldn’t be a supporting character.*

Even my own thoughts wouldn’t let up. I could almost hear the ding of notifications, as if my life was a livestream and everyone had their popcorn.

Anyone could see what the comments meant.

So, I’m that troublemaking supporting character, huh?

The words stung, though I knew they came from inside my own head. I felt like I’d failed some invisible audition for the starring role in my own life. My shoulders tensed, and my heart raced at a particularly cruel comment—*She’s just jealous. That’s why she’ll always lose.*

Jason and I just stood there, frozen.

He kept his hand in his pocket, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a storm. The space between us felt as wide as a canyon. Looks like today, he really won’t take out the ring.

The phone on the table rang—Jason’s. The ringtone, an old pop song we used to dance to in the kitchen, made me jump. His eyes flicked to the phone, then to me, uncertainty flickering in his face. I sighed, not wanting to fight anymore.

"Forget it, just go answer your call," I said, my words flat and brittle as ice. I turned away, socks whispering across the warped hardwood as I headed for the bedroom.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the name on the phone screen.

Natalie Summers.

A woman’s name. No way that was a guy.

A cold pinprick settled behind my ribs, like when you find an old love note that isn’t yours. Is this the female lead the comments were talking about?

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t upset.