My boyfriend was picking me up after work. When I pulled open the passenger door, a young woman was already sitting inside.

She gave me a sweet, practiced smile. "Hey, I get terribly carsick," she said, her voice dripping with artificial innocence. "You don't mind if I take the front seat, do you?" I didn't answer.

I shut the door quietly, walked around the hood, and stopped right beside the driver's window.

Dean looked up at me, his eyes full of sheepish apology. "It was on the way," he began. "I was just giving her a—" I reached through the open window and slapped him across the face. "If she’s that delicate," I snapped, "don't put her in your car.

I'd hate for her to bleed all over your leather." 1 When Dean came to pick me up, I had rushed down the elevator, clutching my tote bag, terrified of keeping him waiting.

It was our seventh anniversary.

We had planned this night for months—a quiet dinner at an impossibletobook restaurant downtown, followed by drinks at the lounge where we had our first real date. Seven years.

Four in college, three in the real world. A lifetime of shared jokes, latenight dinners, and quiet promises.

I hurried toward his sedan, opened the front passenger door, and nearly tossed my bag right into the lap of the girl sitting there. She didn't even flinch.

She looked at my bag, then up at me, blinking her wide, painted eyes. "Hi!" she chimed sweetly. I stood frozen in the muggy evening air.

I tilted my head, looking past her to Dean in the driver’s seat. His posture was stiff, his mouth open, searching for the right words.

Before he could speak, the girl leaned forward. "Hey, I get terribly carsick," she said smoothly. "You don't mind if I take the front seat, do you?" I looked at Dean again.

I saw the guilt flickering in his eyes, but underneath it, something worse: permission. He had allowed her to sit here. He had chosen to give away the space that belonged to us.

I didn't dignify her question with an answer. I stepped back and closed the door with a dull thud. Noticing my reaction, Dean quickly hit the unlock button for the back doors.

But I didn't head for the back. I walked around the front of the car and stopped by the driver’s side window. We had been together for seven years.

He knew me better than anyone in the world, just as I knew the subtle shifts in his posture when he was hiding something. He knew I was furious.

He rolled down the window, his voice cautious. "It was on the way, Lola. I was just giving her a—" I didn't let him finish. I leaned in and slapped him across the cheek.

The crack echoed in the quiet dropoff zone. The air turned instantly brittle. The sweet smile froze on the girl's face, crumbling into sheer disbelief.

Dean stared at me, his hand flying to his reddening cheek, utterly stunned. "Lola, stop," he stammered, his voice dropping an octave. "She’s not just a rider.

She’s my new intern, Kayla Davis. The restaurant we’re going to is right near her apartment complex.

I just thought it made sense to drop her off." I followed his words and turned a cold, deliberate gaze back onto Kayla.

The slap had come out of nowhere, and Kayla’s face was pale now, her eyes darting frantically between Dean and me. I didn't know what she was so afraid of.

If I were going to slap her, I'd need hand sanitizer afterward. "Don't worry, sweetheart," I said, my tone smooth and venomous. "I'm not going to hit you.

I wouldn't waste the effort." When she spoke again, all her polished composure had vanished. "I'm...

I'm so sorry," she whispered, her lower lip trembling. "I really do get nauseous in the back..." Her eyes darted to Dean, looking for protection.

But her protector was already unbuckling his seatbelt, preparing to step out of the car to placate me.

I reached through the window and planted a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder, pressing him firmly back against his seat. "Stay put," I said. The tension inside the cabin was unbearable.

Kayla quickly unbuckled her belt, opening her door with a frantic movement. She looked at Dean, her eyes welling with tears. "Dean... Mr.

Prescott, please don't fight with your girlfriend because of me. I... I can sit in the back.

It's fine." She stepped out, her movements exaggerated, playing the martyr for Dean's benefit. "Lola," she said softly, "you take the front." I looked at her with faux concern. "Are you sure, Kayla?

What if you get sick back there and vomit all over his seats?" Her foot halted midstep.

She stood stranded on the pavement, unable to get back in the front, unwilling to take the back seat, pinned under the spotlight of her own lie.

I leaned back down toward Dean. "What do you think?" He caught the hard edge in my voice. The awkwardness hit him all at once.

He cleared his throat, unable to meet Kayla’s eyes. "Kayla... maybe you should just call a ride.

There isn't really room in here tonight." Four seats in the car, and not enough space for a couple and a girl trying to play the delicate victim.

Kayla looked around the desolate corporate park. Her face twisted in genuine dismay.

Our office complex sat on the edge of the industrial district, miles from the nearest subway station, where rideshare drivers rarely lingered.

It was the exact reason Dean picked me up every evening. A single, dramatic tear slipped down her cheek, though she forced a brave, forgiving smile. "It's fine, Mr. Prescott.

You two go ahead. I could use a walk anyway—I’ve been sitting at my desk all day." I didn't say a word.

I walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, got in, and pulled it shut.

Dean was still staring into his side mirror, watching her figure shrink in the dusk, his expression lingering on pity. "Drive," I said, my voice ice. "Take me home.

I'm not hungry anymore." The entire mood of our anniversary was ruined, tarnished by a cheap, transparent game.

Dean pulled out of the parking lot, taking a deep breath before speaking. His tone turned soft, condescendingly affectionate. "She's just a kid fresh out of college, Lola.

She doesn't know any better. Was it really necessary to make such a scene over a ride?" I didn't care about the seat.

I wasn't twentytwo anymore; I didn't measure love by who sat in the front of a vehicle. What bothered me was her calculated testing of my boundaries—and Dean's quiet permission.

He hadn't pushed back. He hadn't drawn the line. That was the real issue. 2 When I remained silent, Dean reached into the center console and produced a small, velvetwrapped box.

He held it out toward me. "Your anniversary present," he whispered. "Part one." I didn't reach for it. At the next red light, he brought the car to a complete stop.

He held the box in both hands, leaning over to rest his forehead gently against my upper arm, swaying slightly like he used to do in college when he knew he was in the doghouse. "You already slapped me," he murmured softly. "I know I screwed up.

But the gift didn't do anything wrong. Please... don't take your anger out on the velvet." Dean wasn't conventionally striking in a harsh, angular way.

He had a clean, classic boyishness—bright eyes, soft hair, and a warm smile.

When he dropped his eyelids and put on that puppydog expression, it was almost impossible to stay mad at him.

Especially when the right side of his jaw was already swelling red from where my palm had landed. I took the box and snapped it open. Inside lay a simple, unadorned silver bangle.

It wasn't designer.

It looked remarkably like the silver bracelets young girls received from their families when they were growing up—plain, timeless, polished to a mirror shine, only sized for an adult wrist.

My throat tightened. My eyes burned. He remembered. Growing up, my parents had made it abundantly clear that my brother came first.

Every milestone he hit was celebrated; every need I had was an inconvenience.

No matter how successful I became as an adult, no matter how much money I saved in my bank account, I always carried a quiet, achefilled regret: I had never been given the simple, cheap silver bracelet that every other little girl in our neighborhood wore.

Dean looked sideways at me, noticing the soften in my features. He seized the moment instantly. "Lola, I booked that corner table a month ago. Just give the chef a chance, okay?

Do it for the ribeye, if not for me." A small, involuntary laugh escaped my lips. It was a minor incident, I told myself. A misstep. I could let it go.

Except those minor incidents didn't stop. They multiplied. Three weeks later, Dean mentioned a department dinner. Spouses and partners were invited.

He promised to swing by my office to pick me up, but half an hour before we were supposed to leave, he called to say something came up and he couldn't make the drive.

Through the receiver, I could hear loud laughter, clinking glasses, and the ambient roar of a crowded restaurant. A subtle, cold knot tightened in my stomach.

I took a rideshare to the steakhouse downtown. When I pushed open the doors to the private dining room, I immediately understood where that cold knot had come from.

Dean was surrounded by his junior team, laughing as they cheered him on to take another shot. Sitting directly to his right was Kayla.

She was leaning in, her eyes wide with starryeyed admiration, watching him with an expression that went far beyond professional respect.

As Dean drained his glass, Kayla naturally reached over and handed him her tumbler of fruit juice. Without skipping a beat, Dean took it from her hand and drank it all down.

The interaction was smooth, practiced, completely instinctual. "Come on, Boss!" one of the guys chimed in, laughing. "You can't keep taking drinks for the intern!" Dean waved a hand defensively, like a mother hen guarding a chick. "Kayla can't drink heavy liquor, you guys know that.

Stop pressing her. Anything you want to pour for her, pour for me instead. One of hers equals three of mine!" Watching them from the doorway, my stomach churned.

My instinct was to turn around, walk out, and spare myself the headache. But as my hand rested on the brass door handle, a cold, sharp anger took over. Why should I retreat?

I smoothed my skirt and walked straight into the room. Dean caught sight of me and immediately stood up, clearing his throat to introduce me to the table. "Everyone, this is Lola.

My girlfriend. We’re getting engaged next month." A chorus of polite "Nice to meet you" and "Welcome, Lola" filled the room. I smiled, my voice calm and clear. "Hi, everyone.

I'm Lola Cross.

Dean's girlfriend." I shifted my gaze toward Kayla, letting my eyes linger on her pale yellow dress before looking back at the group. "Though, to be precise, I'm the girlfriend who might actually become a wife—not a 'female friend' like Kayla, who's setting herself up to never get married at all." The room plunged into absolute silence.

Colleagues glanced awkwardly at one another, suddenly deeply interested in their cloth napkins. I had been brutal.

Usually, women preserved decorum in professional settings, saving the confrontation for the car ride home. But I was tired of playing nice.

If I swallowed this rage, I wouldn't sleep tonight. And if I couldn't sleep, why should anyone else enjoy their evening? Kayla's face flushed crimson, then drained to an ashwhite.

Dean blinked, visibly flustered by my lack of tact. He tried to laugh it off, waving his hands. "Lola has a very dry sense of humor, everyone!

Please, sit down, babe, sit down." I took a chair directly across from Kayla. I leaned forward, looking her dead in the eye. "I heard you don't drink," I said quietly.

Kayla kept her head down, her hands tightly clutching her napkin. "Lola... I'm just fresh out of school.

Strong alcohol doesn't really agree with me..." I reached for the decanter in the center of the table and poured two full glasses of cabernet, filling them nearly to the brim. "How about I teach you?" I said, sliding one glass across the wood toward her.

The air in the room was suffocating. Under the weight of everyone's eyes, Kayla didn't dare refuse. "Okay..." she whispered weakly.

She reached out a trembling hand, lifted the glass, and braced herself to swallow it down.

Before the rim reached her lips, I reached across the table, plucked the glass right out of her hand, and set it down in front of Dean.

I smiled sweetly at her. "On second thought, sweetheart, if you end up in the ER tonight, I'd have to deal with the paperwork.

Your life might be cheap, but my time isn't." The insult hung in the air like smoke. Kayla’s pathetic facade wobbled.

For a fraction of a second, a flicker of pure, dark malice flashed in her eyes. Her fingers curled into tight fists against her lap, knuckles turning white.

I waited for her to snap. I wanted her to. Instead, Dean snapped first. He grabbed my wrist, yanked me out of my chair, and pulled me toward the hallway.