Betrayed by the Man I Almost Married

My fingers were cold around the phone.

He was the one who'd lied—and somehow every word he said was making me feel like the guilty one.

A heavy sigh came through the line.

Then his voice softened.

"Lottie, I know you worry about me, but do you have any idea how that looked? Lucy's my supervisor. How's she supposed to see me after that? You think she's ever going to put my name forward for anything again?"

"Eight years, Lottie. We've been together eight years, and this is how much you trust me?"

My nose burned out of nowhere.

Eight years—and Eugene had long since learned every way to turn my worry into guilt.

"Forget it, Lottie. I got too worked up. I'm sorry."

He must have taken my silence as a sign, because his tone went completely gentle.

"It was Stuart Lambert—from Lucy's office—whose family had the emergency. You added him on WhatsApp at the last company dinner, right? Go ahead and ask him, if you don't believe me."

After we hung up,

I hesitated for a long time before pulling up Stuart's WhatsApp.

I tapped into the chat, typed "Mr. Lambert," and hit send.

The message bounced. Blocked.

Blocked—when that very morning I'd still been scrolling through his Instagram. Stuart was the person Eugene was closest to at the company, and Eugene had told me to go verify his story, and Stuart had already shut the door in my face.

After the call, Eugene went completely silent.

We'd had plans for the holiday weekend. Disney tickets, booked and confirmed.

But he said he had to work overtime.

He said the bride price was almost saved up—he was so close—and he couldn't pass up triple holiday pay.

So these past few days, when Eugene's messages came less often, I never thought twice about it.

But now...

After dinner, I posted on Instagram. The photo was the scallion oil noodles my mom had made.

The holiday's almost over. Already missing Mom's cooking.

I set it so only Eugene could see it.

After posting, I waited.

One hour. Two hours. Three hours. Four.

Nothing.

In eight years, Eugene had liked every single one of my posts.

I'd asked him once—you're always so busy, how do you manage to catch everything I post the second it goes up?

He'd laughed, fingers running slow through my hair. *Because you matter to me. So I never stop paying attention.*

My fingertip traced a restless circle against my palm, and my thumb brushed the screen without meaning to.

The page slid to Eugene's X profile—and there, posted one minute ago, was a new update: an evening sky, location tagged at the little park near our apartment.

The caption read:

Busy all day. Finally get to breathe.

There was one comment.

You worked so hard today~ My treat next time!

Eugene had replied almost instantly.

Deal. No backing out.

I tapped into the profile of the person who'd commented.

A young woman with chestnut hair.

She hadn't been at Eugene's last company dinner.

1:45 a.m.

Eugene liked my Instagram post.

Then he messaged me, his tone the same bone-deep exhaustion as always.

"Babe, I'm seriously dying. Had no idea holiday overtime would be this brutal..."

"Two more days and you'll be back though. Send me your ticket, I'll pick you up."

"You're probably asleep already, right?"

"Good night. I miss you so much."

I stared at those messages for a long time.

Then I rebooked my ticket.

Mom hadn't expected me two days early. She didn't ask why, just got up at dawn and started pushing things into my bag, hands quick, face tight.