My Fiancé Cheated While I Tried on Wedding Dresses

I took a cab back to the penthouse.

The apartment was warm and quiet. The cedarwood scent hung in the air, heavy and rich. It smelled like wealth. It smelled like Damon.

I didn't turn on the lights. I walked straight down the long hall to the master bedroom.

The walk-in closet was the size of a studio apartment. Inside, hundreds of designer dresses hung in neat rows. Silk blouses, tailored pants, fur coats, and rows of Italian leather heels. Velvet trays held diamond earrings and gold watches.

Damon had bought every single piece. He liked to dress me up for his dinner parties. He liked showing off his good taste.

I didn't touch any of it.

I walked past the rows of cashmere to the very back corner. Hanging on a simple wire hook was an old, brown wool coat.

It was secondhand. I had bought it from a thrift store in the Bronx seven years ago for fourteen dollars. The sleeves were a little frayed, and the lining near the pocket was torn. It smelled faintly of cheap laundry detergent and cold rain.

It was the coat I wore when I first met Damon. It was the only coat in this room that belonged to me.

I took it off the hook and slid my arms into the sleeves. It was warm. It fit me perfectly.

I reached into my pocket and touched the small silk pouch. The sharp edges of the broken jade pressed against my fingers. I left it deep in my coat pocket, right against my ribs.

Then I walked into the kitchen.

I pulled my phone out. I popped open the tiny metal tray on the side and took out the SIM card. It was just a small square of white plastic.

I held it between my thumbs and snapped it cleanly in two.

It made a sharp, tiny *crack*.

I opened the cabinet under the sink and dropped the two pieces into the kitchen trash, burying them under old coffee grounds.

I left the phone on the counter. Beside it, I set my keycard to the penthouse.

I didn't pack a bag. I didn't take a single dollar from the dresser.

I pulled my coat tight around myself, walked out the front door, and let it click shut behind me.

***

JFK was loud and crowded.

Fluorescent lights glared down on the polished floors of the international departures terminal. People rushed past with heavy suitcases. Announcements played over the speakers in English, French, and Spanish.

I carried nothing. My hands were empty.

I moved through the security line with steady feet. When the guard asked for my passport, I handed him the fresh blue booklet from Elisabeth’s white envelope. He checked the photo, stamped it, and handed it back.

I didn't look over my shoulder. I didn't scan the crowd to see if anyone was following me.

I found Gate B28.

The flight to Paris was boarding in forty minutes. I sat down on an empty vinyl chair by the massive glass windows. Outside, huge planes sat on the dark tarmac under the runway lights. Snow was starting to fall in tiny, dry flakes against the glass.

I slipped my right hand into my coat pocket.

My fingertips brushed the silk pouch. Through the thin cloth, I felt the sharp, jagged pieces of my pendant. They poked into my skin. It hurt a little, but the pain felt real. It anchored me to the floor.

I took a slow, deep breath.

Then I pulled my hand out and folded both hands in my lap.

My eyes were completely dry. I didn't shed a single tear. The woman who cried over Damon Griffin had stayed behind on the bathroom floor of the Four Seasons.

A chime sounded overhead.

"Air France Flight 007 to Paris Charles de Gaulle is now boarding all rows at Gate B28."

I stood up. I smoothed the front of my old wool coat and squared my shoulders.

I walked up to the gate agent. She scanned my boarding pass. The machine beeped once.

"Have a nice flight, Miss Turner," she said with a bright smile.

"Thank you," I said.

I walked down the long, carpeted jet bridge toward the open cabin door.

I didn't look back. Not once.

***

Damon unlocked the penthouse door at nine that night.

He tossed his leather briefcase onto the entryway bench and loosened his silk tie. He had spent three hours in a board meeting, followed by drinks with two hedge fund managers. His head ached.

He expected to see Indie on the sofa. Usually, she would be curled up under a blanket with an art book, waiting for him. She would look up, smile quietly, and ask if he wanted tea.

The living room was pitch black.

"Indie?" he called out.

His voice bounced off the high concrete ceilings. No one answered.

He walked into the kitchen and flipped on the pendant lights.

The island was empty. Except for two things.

A black smartphone and a set of keys.

Damon frowned. He walked down the quiet hallway and pushed open the master bedroom door.

"Indie?"

The bed was made. The pillows were neat and untouched.

He walked into the walk-in closet. The motion sensors tripped, and the warm lights flooded the space.

Her side of the closet was open.

The designer dresses hung on their velvet hangers. The rows of shoes sat on the shelves. The diamond jewelry sparkled on the velvet trays. Not a single expensive thing was missing.

Yet the space felt hollow. It was completely empty of her.

She hadn't packed a bag. She hadn't taken a suitcase. She had simply walked away from everything, as though none of it was worth taking.

Damon’s heart gave a sudden, strange thump.

He pulled his phone from his suit pocket and dialed her number. He pressed the speaker button.

A recorded female voice came through the line, cold and robotic.

"The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again."

Damon stared at the screen.

He tapped the red button. He dialed again.

"The number you have dialed has been disconnected..."

He hung up. He called a third time.

The same dead tone filled the quiet room.

His hand began to sweat. The silence in the apartment pressed against his ears, heavy and suffocating.

His legs suddenly felt weak. Slowly, Damon sank down until he was sitting on the hardwood floor of the closet.

He leaned his back against the wall, right beneath a row of bare wooden hangers, and stared into the dark.