Anniversary Day of Betrayal

"Three years," I said, my voice rising with each word. "Three years of my life, David. Do you know what I've sacrificed for you?"

My hands trembled as I counted off on my fingers. "I took that dead-end job at Patterson's to help pay for your MBA applications. I turned down the transfer to Boston because you said long-distance would kill us. I—"

"You're suffocating me!" David's face contorted, a vein pulsing at his temple. He grabbed the elaborate cake from the table, his knuckles white around its base. "This is exactly why I can't do this anymore. You're so fucking controlling!"

I didn't see it coming. One moment I was standing there, the next, pain exploded across my face as the cake slammed into me with shocking force. The impact knocked me backward, frosting and cake driving into my eyes with brutal pressure. Something sharp—the sugar sculpture—raked across my right eye, and white-hot pain seared through me.

I screamed, hands flying to my face. The burning was unbearable, like acid poured directly onto my cornea. I staggered backward, colliding with the wall as I clawed at my eyes.

"Oh my God, that was epic!" Oaklynn's laughter cut through my pain, high and delighted. "The look on her face!"

"Clean yourself up," David said coldly. "You're embarrassing yourself."

I pulled my hands away, blinking desperately to clear my vision. Horror washed through me at the sight of my trembling fingers—frosting mixed with streaks of crimson blood. The sugar sculpture had cut my eyelid.

I stumbled toward the bathroom, bouncing off the doorframe as my blurred vision failed me. Cold water hit my face as I bent over the sink, desperately trying to flush the cake and frosting from my burning eyes. Each splash sent fresh waves of pain through me. Blood-tinged water swirled down the drain.

"The flight leaves at nine," David's voice drifted through the door, casual as if he were discussing dinner plans instead of standing in the aftermath of violence. "We should be at the airport by seven to be safe."

"I can't wait to watch the sunrise from our balcony," Oaklynn's voice was breathless with excitement. "The hotel website said the mountain views are incredible."

"I packed your cashmere scarf," David replied. "It gets cold in Aspen, even in May."

Their voices faded as they moved away from the bathroom door. I gripped the edge of the sink, my right eye streaming tears mixed with blood. The pain wasn't subsiding. If anything, it was getting worse, a relentless burning that made it impossible to keep the eye open.

I needed a doctor. Fumbling for my phone, I ordered an Uber to the emergency room, hands shaking so badly I could barely type the address.

I grabbed my purse and stumbled toward the front door, one hand pressed against my injured eye. In the hallway, David had Oaklynn pressed against the wall, kissing her deeply. Their matching suitcases stood neatly by the door, ready for their romantic getaway. Neither of them looked up as I passed, as if I had already ceased to exist.

The emergency room lights stabbed into my good eye as a nurse led me to an examination room. The doctor, a woman with kind eyes and silver-streaked hair, gently pried my injured eyelid open.

"You have a corneal abrasion," she explained, applying numbing drops that brought blessed relief. "And a laceration on the eyelid itself. What happened?"

I opened my mouth to explain, but shame closed my throat. How could I admit that my boyfriend of three years had done this to me?

"An accident," I whispered.

As the doctor applied antibiotic ointment, my phone buzzed repeatedly in my purse. When she stepped out to prepare a prescription, I checked the notifications with my functioning eye.

Oaklynn's Instagram stories filled my screen. Selfies from the airport, her head nestled against David's shoulder, both wearing those matching sweaters. "Adventure awaits with my forever person ✈️❤️" the caption read. Another showed their boarding passes to Aspen, her perfectly manicured fingernails splayed across the tickets.

A sob tore from my throat, raw and painful.

"Are you safe at home?" The doctor had returned, prescription in hand, her gaze searching mine with professional concern.

The question hit me like a physical blow. Home. Where was home now? The apartment I'd furnished with such care, where rose petals now lay crushed on the floor and my cake decorated the inside of a trash can?

"I don't know," I answered honestly.

She handed me an eye patch and pain medication. "You need to avoid stress for proper healing," she advised, her voice gentle. "Is there someone who can stay with you tonight?"

I nodded automatically, the lie easier than admitting the truth: I had nowhere to go.