Justice for the Broken Heart

The fluorescent lights in our dorm room cast harsh shadows across Heaven's face as she scrolled through her phone, that familiar smug smile playing at her lips. I was folding laundry on my bed, trying to focus on the mundane task to quiet the unease that had been gnawing at me for weeks. Something felt different between Lincoln and me lately—distant conversations, canceled dates, that strange look in his eyes when he thought I wasn't watching.

"Oh my god, look at this cute couple's photo," Heaven giggled, holding up her phone screen. "Don't you think they're adorable?"

I glanced over automatically, my hands stilling on the sweater I'd been folding. The blood in my veins turned to ice.

There, on Heaven's phone screen, was the exact same couple's profile picture that Lincoln and I had used for months—the silhouette of two people holding hands against a sunset, the same romantic filter, the same cropping. But it wasn't our photo. It was theirs.

My heart hammered against my ribs as the room seemed to tilt around me. "Where... where did you get that photo?"

Heaven's eyes sparkled with something that looked almost like satisfaction. "It's just something I found online. Romantic, right?" She tilted the screen away from me, but not before I caught a glimpse of the username. Lincoln's username.

The sweater slipped from my numb fingers. Seven years of loving him, three years of dating, countless nights of molding myself into what I thought he wanted—and this was how I discovered the truth. Through a casual conversation about cute photos.

"I need some air," I whispered, stumbling toward the door.

But Heaven's voice followed me, sweet as poison honey. "Oh, Leanna? I almost forgot to show you something else."

I turned back despite every instinct screaming at me to run. Heaven was reaching into her closet, pulling out a pristine orange box that made my stomach drop. Hermès. The same distinctive packaging that had held my birthday gift from Lincoln just two months ago.

"Look what my boyfriend got me," Heaven purred, lifting out a bag identical to mine. The same model, the same color, even the same delicate gold hardware that caught the light just so. "He has such exquisite taste, don't you think?"

The room spun around me. I gripped the doorframe to keep from falling as the pieces clicked into place with devastating clarity. The same profile picture. The same expensive gifts. The same boyfriend.

Heaven was watching me with predatory satisfaction, her mask of innocent friendship finally slipping. "He said it reminded him of someone special when he bought it. I guess he just has a type."

My throat felt raw, though I couldn't remember making a sound. The bag I'd treasured, the gift I'd thought showed how much Lincoln cared—it was nothing more than a duplicate, a copy of what he'd given to the woman he was actually choosing.

Three days later, the final blow came with surgical precision.

Our dorm had turned into an impromptu authentication party, with half a dozen girls comparing designer pieces they'd acquired over the semester. I sat on my bed, my Hermès bag in my lap, trying to appear normal while my world crumbled around me. Heaven lounged on her bed across from me, her identical bag displayed prominently beside her.

"We should totally get these checked," suggested Maya, one of our floormates. "I heard there are so many good fakes now, you can barely tell the difference."

That's when Lincoln walked in.

He moved through our room like he belonged there, his confident stride faltering only slightly when his eyes met mine. But it was Heaven who drew his attention, Heaven who received his warm smile.

"Perfect timing," Heaven said, her voice bright with false innocence. "We're doing authenticity checks. You're good with designer stuff, right?"

Lincoln's gaze shifted between the two identical bags, and something cold flickered across his features. He picked up Heaven's bag first, examining it with exaggerated care.

"This one's definitely real," he announced, his voice carrying clearly across the suddenly quiet room. "The stitching, the hardware—all authentic."

Then his hands moved to my bag, the bag he'd given me himself, and his expression hardened into something I'd never seen before. Cruel. Calculating.

"This one, though..." He shook his head with theatrical disappointment. "Sorry, Leanna, but this is clearly a fake. The leather quality, the stamp—it's a decent copy, but definitely not authentic."

The room erupted in whispers and shocked murmurs. I felt every pair of eyes on me, burning with pity and judgment. My hands trembled as I stared at Lincoln, this man I'd loved for seven years, as he publicly humiliated me to protect his new relationship.

Heaven's triumphant smile was the last thing I saw before I bolted from the room, my fake bag clutched against my chest, my heart shattered beyond recognition.