This has to be a prank.
The thought clawed at the edges of my mind, desperate and childish. Maybe this was one of those hidden camera shows. Maybe Dickson was trying to scare me just so he could drop to one knee afterward, laughing at how easily I'd fallen for it.
But his face—cold, detached, like he was discussing a quarterly report—told me the truth before my heart could even process it.
He's serious.
"I'm telling you this because I don't want to keep leading you on," he continued, swirling his wine like this was just another business meeting. "I don't deserve your love or support, but I am grateful for it."
Every word was another weight on my chest, dragging me deeper into some dark, airless place. The more he spoke, the more I felt myself sinking.
This can't be happening.
Dickson set his glass down with finality. "I know you're mature, Eleanor. So I trust there won't be any... drama on the day of the wedding."
Drama.
As if my pain was just an inconvenience.
I stared at him, searching his face for any flicker of remorse, any sign that this hurt him too. But his expression was the same as always—polished, impenetrable. The face of a man who had already moved on.
"...Are you for real?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Dickson arched a brow. "Did I stammer? Or are your ears not functioning anymore?"
A familiar jab. One he always followed with a laugh and a "Just kidding, don't take it personal."
But this time—silence.
No joke. No apology.
Just cruelty, laid bare.
My chest tightened, a crushing pressure that made it hard to breathe. How am I still sitting here? How am I not collapsing?
Dickson checked his watch and stood, straightening his cufflinks. "Thanks for the wine. I can't stay—my fiancée is expecting me."
Fiancée.
The word was a knife twisted in my ribs.
He didn't look back as he walked away.
I sat there, numb, the restaurant noise fading into a dull roar. The waiter appeared, placing the bill on the table with a polite nod.
$5,280.
My stomach lurched. He ordered it. He invited me. And now I'm paying for my own heartbreak.
Hands trembling, I pulled out my phone and dialed Dickson's number.
One ring. Two. Three.
Voicemail.
I tried again. Nothing.
My vision blurred.
The waiter cleared his throat, his polite smile now strained. "Ma'am, if you can't pay, I'll have to call the authorities."
His words were sharp, meant to cut. And they did.
Gold digger.
The accusation hung in the air like smoke. He didn't say it outright, but it was there—in the way his eyes flicked over my dress, my trembling hands, the tear-stained phone still clutched in my grip.
My salary was $20,000 a month. More than enough to cover this. Or it should have been.
But Dickson had taken half of it for years, whispering promises of a dream house, a future, a life together.
"It's for us, Eleanor. You trust me, don't you?"
And like a fool, I had.
I had seen the red flags—the way he'd dismiss my concerns, the way he'd take credit for my work, the way he'd make me feel small and then kiss me forehead like it was all a joke.
But love made excuses. Love lied.
Now, I was here—stranded in a restaurant I couldn't afford, paying for a breakup she never saw coming. Or did I choose to be ignorant.
My fingers fumbled as I dialed Mira.
The phone rang once before Mira's cheerful voice crackled through. "Hey, superstar! You better not be calling to cancel on tomorrow—"
My breath hitched. I tried to speak, but the words tangled in my throat.
"Eleanor?" Mira's tone shifted instantly. "What's wrong?"
"I—" My voice cracked. "I need $2,000. Just... just for tonight. I'm stuck somewhere."
"Where are you? What happened?"
"Everything's fine," Eleanor whispered.
A lie. A reflex.
Everything is fine. This isn't real. This is a nightmare. A test. Any second now, Dickson will walk back in, laughing, telling me it was all a joke—
"Eleanor." Mira's voice was firm. "Tell me where you are. Right now."
The waiter crossed his arms, tapping his foot.
I squeezed her eyes shut.
"I—" My voice broke. I swallowed hard, forcing the words out evenly. "It's just an emergency. I need $2,000. I'll pay you back."
Mira was silent for a beat. I could practically hear her frown through the phone. "Eleanor—"
"Please."
A sigh. "I'll send it."
Relief washed over me, but it was cold and hollow.
—-
Outside, the city pulsed around me—sounds too sharp, the sidewalk tilting ever so slightly beneath my feet.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But my lungs refused to cooperate. My chest was a lead weight, my vision still blurred at the edges. I blinked hard, willing the tears back. Not here. Not in public.
But the thoughts came anyway, relentless.
Two years.
Two years of love-bombing—gifts, sweet words, promises of a future—only for him to slowly pull away. And what did I do? I doubled down. I cooked his favorite meals. I took on extra work so he could relax.
I made myself smaller, quieter, easier, thinking if I just gave more, he'd stay.
But he was already gone.
He'd been gone for who knows how long.
And the worst part? He felt no remorse.
A bitter laugh escaped me.
This wasn't even my first heartbreak. I should be used to this by now.
But the pain was fresh, raw, like a wound ripped open again and again.
Because I keep pouring everything into people who only take.
Was it my fault?
No.
Should I have loved less?
No.
Then why did I do it?
The answer was pathetic, obvious: Because I thought if I gave enough, they'd have no reason to leave.
Hypocrite.
The word burned in my chest as I stumbled across the street, my vision still blurred with unshed tears.
I had spent years lecturing myself—Don't lower your standards. Don't let anyone make you feel small. Expect disappointment so it won't destroy you.
And yet.
Here I was. Again.
Broken. Begging for scraps of love from a man who had already moved on.
I have no self-respect.
Each heartbreak was supposed to teach me something. Each betrayal was meant to make me stronger.
But the universe wasn't done humiliating me yet. It had one final lesson to deliver.I didn't pay attention to the road when I was crossing it.
A horn blared—sharp, deafening.
I barely had time to turn my head before the impact sent me flying.
The world tilted.
My body hit the pavement with a sickening crack.
Pain exploded through me—white-hot, all-consuming.
What—?
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
Around me, voices shouted. Tires screeched.
But all I could think was:
I don't want to die.
Not like this. Not alone. Not when the last thing I felt was his rejection.
Tears spilled over, mixing with the blood on my face.
This isn't fair. I just wanted to be loved.
And then—
A spark.
Deep inside me, something ignited.
A flame where there should have been nothing but pain.
It spread through my veins, sudden and searing.
My vision darkened at the edges.
So this is how it ends.
The last thing I felt before the blackness swallowed me whole was that strange, impossible fire—
And the crushing realization that even the universe had given up on me.