Chapter 2: Madison, Memories, and Moving On

Derek had set his sights on a college girl who hadn’t even graduated yet.

Rumors had swirled around the office, trickling through the grapevine faster than wildfire. The girl, Madison, was all shiny hair and bright teeth—the kind of girl who could go viral just by flipping her hair, all influencer energy and zero apologies.

He bought her a condo in Silver Hollow, filled it with designer bags and shoes.

I’d seen the receipts—Gucci, Chanel, all the names that filled up magazine ads and dreams. The condo was all glass and marble, perched at the top of a high-rise like a jewelry box.

But the girl wouldn’t let him kiss her, wouldn’t let him hug her.

He complained about it to anyone who’d listen, like he was being denied some basic human right. His voice always dipped into a whine when he talked about her boundaries.

She lived in a 4,000-square-foot penthouse, wore clothes worth thousands, and lifted her chin, saying, “I won’t be a mistress.”

Madison was stubborn, proud. She talked with the kind of certainty that comes from never having to scrape for anything. She wanted the perks, but not the label. I wondered if she knew how sharp her words could be.

Derek found it amusing.

He laughed about it with his friends, like it was all a game. I could hear the notes of challenge in his voice—like he was determined to win her over just for the sake of it.

This was already the third time he’d put on a show for her.

I realized that these dramas weren’t about me at all. I was just a stage prop in his performance, an extra in a story he was writing for someone else.

The first time, he flaunted his relationship with me.

He posted photos, tagged locations, made it look like a love story. My heart fluttered every time my phone buzzed with notifications.

Back then, I didn’t even know Madison existed.

I hugged him happily and took lots of photos.

We snapped selfies at brunch spots, at art fairs, at the Fourth of July parade. My Instagram was a collage of smiles and sunflowers, a scrapbook I thought was real.

When I saw him post a whole nine-photo grid on Instagram, I was pleasantly surprised and full of hope.

I checked my phone every few minutes, waiting for likes, for comments. My friends sent heart emojis. It felt like we were finally something worth showing off.

But no matter how much I refreshed, I couldn’t see that post in my feed.

My fingers cramped from swiping. I deleted the app, redownloaded it, tried again. Nothing. I blamed the algorithm, never suspecting the truth.

Only later did I realize, he’d set it to “visible only to Madison.”

When the truth clicked, it was like a punch to the gut. I scrolled through his privacy settings, each toggle switch a little betrayal. The photos were never meant for me at all.

The second time, he picked a fight with me.

We argued in the car, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I got out at the curb, standing alone as rain spattered on my shoulders. I felt stupid, exposed.

Left me alone on the street.

The traffic roared past, headlights flashing. I wiped my face, shivering in the cold. People hurried by, not meeting my eyes.

Took a photo of me crying by myself, and sent it to Madison.

He snapped the picture while I was hunched over, my hair plastered to my cheeks. Later, I found out he’d texted it to her, like proof of my defeat.

[See, nothing I can do. She can’t leave me.]

I read the message over his shoulder once, the words echoing like a dare. He sounded proud of my misery.

The third time, he wanted to divorce me.

My phone buzzed. I took it out.

It vibrated against my thigh, sharp and urgent. I hesitated before unlocking it, afraid of what I’d find.

[Really?]

[Are you serious?]

[Emily Brooks.]

I wiped away my tears and smiled.

A strange, bitter smile. It felt like I was watching myself from outside my own body—a girl with too much hope, finally running on empty.

“Really.”

The word tasted like salt and surrender.