An Epitaph for Our Love

I seized a whiskey glass and hurled it against the wall. Shards flew, one of them slicing open the back of my hand.

Blood dripped from my knuckles, but I felt nothing.

Was this what rock bottom felt like? Even the sharp sting of the glass barely registered.

I stumbled out of that apartment.

…

At midnight, I made it back to my architecture studio.

Just as I collapsed into a chair, a shrill ringtone pierced the silence.

The name “Victoria” flashed on the screen, a venomous glow in the darkness.

“Ava! The wedding is about to start! Where in the world are you?” a sharp voice barked from the other end. “I knew it! You’re just some trashy, poor girl with no family! If Caleb hadn’t insisted, I never would have agreed to this marriage!”

“Mrs. Hawthorne, have Caleb and Scarlett arrived?” I asked, my voice a raw whisper. The shouting on the other end paused. “Why are you asking me that? You’re the bride! And Caleb is exhausted after being up all night with Scarlett. It’s perfectly understandable that he’s sleeping in!”

“Your son is busy exploring a new kind of 'family bonding' with his adopted sister,” I rasped, my voice hoarse and unrecognizable. “Should I send you the video?”

Dead silence, followed by an even more piercing shriek. “What nonsense are you spouting? Scarlett and Caleb have a perfectly innocent—”

I hung up and stared at the wall covered with blueprints for the home we were supposed to build together.

Every line, drawn over countless sleepless nights, now seemed to mock me in the morning light, a monument to my own foolishness.

My fingers traced the plans on the wall, the gut-wrenching realization hitting me that this house would never be built.

In a daze, I began tearing them down, one by one, not even realizing tears were streaming down my face.

Victoria had always despised me for being an orphan. No matter what I accomplished, I could never win her approval. Back then, Caleb would just pull me into his arms and tell me none of it mattered, that as long as he loved me, it was enough.

I was such a fool.

I had been so blind. All his talk about protecting Scarlett, all his “concern”—it had never been about sibling affection. The man I thought was my salvation had slept with his sister in our bed, right in front of me.

My phone vibrated nonstop, confirmation emails from wedding vendors flooding my inbox.

Like a robot, I replied to each one, canceling everything, bracing myself for the financial fallout.

Just then, a new notification popped up on my Instagram.

Scarlett had posted a close-up of Caleb’s bare chest. On the minimalist mountain range tattoo we had designed to symbolize our love, a new, clumsily carved letter ‘S’ scarred the peak. The caption read: ‘Finally reached the summit.’

Caleb had even liked it.

I stared at the tattoo I had designed for him, stroke by painstaking stroke, and I started to laugh.