He Called Off Our Forever

Amanda POV:

Hospital discharge day. Benjamin wasn' t there. My mentor, Professor Davies, drove me back to my apartment. As I hobbled out of the car, my arm throbbing, I saw the message on my phone. From Benjamin:

So sorry, Amanda. Jenna had a terrible scare at her apartment last night. Someone trying to break in. She' s really shaken up. I couldn' t leave her alone. I' ll bring you dinner tonight. What do you want? Don' t worry, I' ll make it up to you.

A terrible scare. Of course. Always Jenna. Always something that needed his immediate, undivided attention. I stared at the message, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my throat. He was still trying to play the part of the caring boyfriend, even as he prioritized someone else entirely.

I texted back: Don't bother. I'm fine. I knew it wouldn't stop him.

Later that evening, I heard a knock. I opened the door to see Benjamin standing there, a large insulated bag in his hand, a sheepish smile on his face.

"Hey," he said, trying to sound casual. "I know you said not to bother, but I figured you' d need a good meal after all this. I made your favorite – chicken noodle soup, just like your mom used to make. And some fresh bread." He held up the bag.

My stomach churned. The smell of chicken noodle soup, usually so comforting, now made me want to gag. My body remembered the pain, the shock, the trauma. And the last thing I wanted was a reminder of the 'comfort' Benjamin used to offer.

"Thanks, but I' m not hungry," I said, my voice flat.

He frowned, his smile faltering. "Nonsense, you have to eat. You' re still so pale. Come on, let me set it up." He tried to push past me, but I blocked the doorway.

"Benjamin, I told you I' m not hungry."

"What' s wrong?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "I made it specially for you." He opened the bag, and the aroma wafted out. It wasn't chicken noodle soup. It was a rich, creamy seafood bisque. My heart sank. I was highly allergic to shellfish. An allergic reaction could send me back to the hospital. He knew this. He always knew.

My eyes widened in disbelief. "You… you made seafood bisque?"

He froze, looking at the steaming container, then back at me, his face slowly draining of color. "Seafood… oh my God. No. This isn' t… this was for Jenna."

The words hit me harder than any physical blow. He had mixed up our meals. He had brought me, the girl he supposedly still cared about, a meal that could kill me, because he was so preoccupied with Jenna.

His phone began to ring, a frantic, insistent buzz. He glanced at the caller ID, his eyes wide. "It' s Jenna!" he gasped, fumbling to answer. "Jenna? Are you okay? I' m so sorry! I grabbed the wrong bag! Is your stomach still upset? Did you eat any of it?"

I heard Jenna' s whiny voice on the other end, faint but audible. "Benjamin! Where are you? I' m starving! And my stomach feels awful! You promised me chicken noodle soup, not… not this fishy stuff!" Her voice was laced with a sickly sweetness, a manipulative feigned vulnerability.

Benjamin' s face was a study in panic. "I' m so sorry, sweetheart! I' m still at Amanda' s. I' ll be right there! Don' t eat anything else! I' ll get you the right soup, I promise!" He ended the call, his eyes darting to me, filled with a desperate apology. "Amanda, I–"

"Don' t," I cut him off, my voice cold as ice. "Just… don' t. Get out, Benjamin."

He opened his mouth to protest, but I didn' t give him a chance. I stepped back, my eyes blazing, and pointed to the door. "Go take care of your 'sweetheart,' Benjamin. And don' t ever come back."

He stood there, frozen for a moment, the bag of bisque still in his hand, his eyes wide and pleading. But I simply closed the door in his face. The click of the lock was a final, definitive sound.

I walked straight to my laptop, my hand still throbbing, and opened the email from the Paris school. With my left hand, I filled out the necessary paperwork, confirmed my acceptance, signed the forms. The professor' s words rang in my ears: They believe in your talent, Amanda. It was a stark contrast to Benjamin' s dismissal of my work, his trivialization of Jenna' s plagiarism.

A few days later, Professor Davies called. "Amanda, just wanted to let you know, everything' s finalized for Paris. Your flight is booked. Your accommodation confirmed."

"Thank you, Professor," I said, a genuine smile touching my lips for the first time in weeks.

As I walked through the university hallways later that afternoon, heading to the registrar' s office to finalize my withdrawal, I overheard two other professors talking.

"Did you see Jenna Christian' s latest design? Absolutely stunning. That phoenix motif, so original. She really is a talent."

"Indeed. Benjamin Kane is quite taken with her work too, I hear. He' s been very supportive."

I walked past them, my head held high, ignoring the bitter taste in my mouth. Let them praise her. Let them believe her lies. My future was waiting.

I stepped out of the office, relieved. The air was crisp, the sky a brilliant blue. A delivery truck was parked at the curb, and a man in a uniform was looking at his clipboard.

"Amanda Stevens?" he called out.

"That' s me," I said, walking towards him.

"Package for you. Just need you to sign here." He gestured to his electronic pad.

I reached for the pen, but before I could take it, a hand clapped over my mouth. A strong arm wrapped around my waist, dragging me backward. I struggled, my heart seizing with terror, but a sweet, cloying scent enveloped me, and the world began to spin. The delivery man, I realized, was not a delivery man at all. His eyes were cold, devoid of expression.

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The last thing I saw before blackness consumed me was the back of a dark van, its doors swinging open. And then, nothing.