After Ninety-Nine Confessions, I Ruined His Empire

I draped the last string of fairy lights across our Manhattan apartment, my fingers trembling with anticipation. Tonight would be my 98th confession to Ethan. Just one more after this, and he would finally be mine forever. Seven years of waiting, of loving him through his coldness, would culminate in marriage—just as he promised.

The dining table gleamed under soft lighting, adorned with crystal vases filled with blood-red roses I'd special ordered from his favorite florist. The scent of beef Wellington—his favorite—wafted from the kitchen where I'd spent hours perfecting every detail. I smoothed my hands over the black dress I'd chosen, the one he once said made me look 'almost as beautiful as Victoria.'

I touched the small velvet box containing the Patek Philippe watch I'd saved for months to buy. My 98th confession gift. Each confession had to be accompanied by a gesture, a token of my devotion. That was the rule of our game. His game.

"Just two more," I whispered to myself, adjusting a rose that had tilted in its vase. "Just two more confessions and he'll see that no one could ever love him like I do."

My phone vibrated against the marble countertop. Ethan's name flashed across the screen, sending a flutter through my chest.

"Hey," I answered, unable to keep the excitement from my voice. "I'm just putting the finishing touches on everything. You're going to love—"

"I can't make it tonight." His voice was clipped, distracted. Traffic sounds blared in the background.

My heart stuttered. "What? But tonight is—"

"Victoria's flight just landed at JFK. She's back from London. I need to pick her up."

The name hit me like a slap. Victoria. His first love. The woman whose ghost had haunted our relationship for seven years.

"But Ethan, tonight is important. It's my ninety-eighth confession. I've prepared everything and—"

"Look, Olivia," he cut in, impatience edging his tone, "I'll make it up to you, okay? Victoria just landed unexpectedly, and I can't leave her stranded."

"Can't she take a taxi? Or—"

"I'll make it up to you," he repeated, firmer this time. "I have to go. The traffic's terrible."

The line went dead before I could respond.

I stood frozen, phone still pressed to my ear, staring at the carefully arranged table that now seemed to mock me. The beef Wellington would grow cold. The candles would remain unlit. The watch would stay in its box.

With mechanical movements, I began lighting the candles anyway. Perhaps he would come later. Perhaps Victoria's return was just a brief interruption. Perhaps—

My phone pinged with an Instagram notification. Absently, I swiped it open.

My lungs seized.

There was Ethan, his smile broader than I'd seen in months, holding a bouquet of roses—my roses—as he embraced a stunning woman at the airport. The caption read: "Welcome home, V. As if you never left."

I zoomed in on the flowers. They were identical to the ones I'd ordered for tonight. He must have taken them from our apartment before leaving.

My phone rang again. My mother's name appeared on the screen.

"Mom?" I answered, struggling to keep my voice steady.

"Olivia." Her voice trembled in a way I'd never heard before. "Did you see? Did that woman send you those horrible messages too?"

"What messages?"

"That Victoria person." My mother's breathing sounded labored. "She sent me texts... pictures of her with Ethan today. She said you were just... just a stopgap. That you were pathetic, waiting for him all these years while he was just biding time until she returned."

A cold dread spread through me. "Mom, calm down. Your heart—"

"There were pictures, Olivia." Her voice cracked. "Intimate pictures from today. She said she wanted me to know what my daughter was too stupid to see."

A sharp gasp came through the line, followed by a thud.

"Mom? MOM!"

Only silence answered.

I grabbed my purse and keys, knocking over one of the vases. Red roses scattered across the floor like drops of blood as I ran for the door.

The taxi ride to NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital was a blur of panic and prayers. I raced through sterile corridors, the antiseptic smell burning my nostrils as nurses directed me with pitying eyes.

I was too late.

My mother lay still, her hand already cooling when I took it in mine. The doctor spoke words that didn't register—cardiac event, acute stress, nothing they could do.

"She regained consciousness briefly at the end," a nurse told me gently. "Her last words were about you. She said, 'Be happy, Olivia.'"

I pressed my forehead to my mother's hand, tears falling onto the hospital sheet. In that moment, something inside me hardened like cooling steel. The grief that flooded me carried something else on its tide—a burning, clarifying fury.

Seven years of devotion. Ninety-eight confessions. And for what? For a man who gave my roses to another woman while my mother died alone.