Chapter 3 _ Evelyn

I looked at him with disgust and helplessness, my entire body vibrating with a frequency that felt like it was going to shatter my bones.

"You're invited."

The words hung in the air, toxic and absurd. He wasn't just breaking my heart; he was mocking the wreckage. He was dancing on the grave of a future he had promised me.

I stared at his face—that handsome, chiseled face I had kissed a thousand times, the face I had memorized in the dark—and I didn't recognize him. He looked like a stranger. No, he looked like a monster wearing a Jason mask.

"You are wicked," I whispered, the air leaving my lungs in a rush. "You are actually evil."

Tears were rolling down my cheeks now, hot and fast, blurring my vision until the candlelight of the restaurant smeared into jagged streaks of gold. Jason didn't even blink. He just sat there, adjusting his cufflink, waiting for me to leave so he could probably order a celebratory drink.

Jason is very wicked. That was the only thought my brain could process. Pure, unadulterated wickedness.

I didn't wait for him to respond. I couldn't breathe the same air as him for one second longer. I turned on my heel, clutching my purse to my chest like a shield, and stormed out of the place.

I pushed past the confused waiter holding a bottle of champagne, I pushed past the hostess who tried to smile at me, and I burst through the heavy glass doors into the night.

The cool air hit my wet face, but it didn't cool the fire burning in my chest. I started running. Not running to get somewhere, just running to get away. I ran until my heels clicked frantically against the ground, the sound echoing the chaotic beating of my heart.

I turned into the streets, blindly. I didn't know where I was going. The city was loud, a cacophony of horns and engines, but everything sounded muffled, like I was underwater. People walked past me—couples holding hands, groups of friends laughing—and I felt like a ghost haunting the living. They didn't know that my world had just ended. They didn't know that eight years of my life had just been valued at ten thousand dollars and a pity invite.

I kept walking helplessly down the streets, the adrenaline slowly fading into a heavy, crushing numbness. My feet hurt and my expensive dress, the one I bought to get engaged in, felt heavy and suffocating.

It was already late at night. The shadows were growing longer, and the wind was picking up. I stopped at a street corner, shivering, hugging myself to keep from falling apart right there on the sidewalk. I needed to go somewhere. I couldn't go home. I raised a trembling hand and stopped a cab.

"Where to?" the driver asked, eyeing my tear-streaked face in the rearview mirror.

I tried to speak, but a sob caught in my throat. I swallowed it down, tasting salt.

"Garden View Estate," I croaked out. "Number 4."

Stella.

My best friend. My sister in everything but blood. Stella is somebody I can rely on always. She’s the only person who wouldn't ask questions first. 

Usually, I always inform her before coming to her house—we have that courtesy, that respect for boundaries—but I came today unannounced. I didn't have the capacity for courtesy. I was a refugee of love, seeking asylum.

The cab drove me there in silence. I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of neon. Eight years. The number kept looping in my mind. Two thousand, nine hundred and twenty days. I had given him my youth. I had given him my loyalty, my body, my soul, my potential children.

And he was getting married in two days.

Two days.

A bile rose in my throat again. He had been planning this. While I was ironing his shirts, he was planning a wedding. While I was dreaming of our future, he was building one with someone else.

The cab pulled up to Stella’s building. I fumbled with my cash, handing the driver whatever bills I grabbed, not caring about the change. I stumbled out of the car.

I arrived completely devastated, my legs feeling like lead. I just managed to work myself to her door. I didn't even have the energy to knock properly; I just leaned my weight against the wood and pressed the doorbell with a shaking finger.

One second. Two seconds.

I heard footsteps. The lock turned.

The door opened, and warm light flooded the hallway. Stella stood there in her oversized pajamas, her hair in a messy bun, a look of confusion on her face.

"Eve?" she asked, blinking.

I looked at her, and the dam finally broke.

I fell into her arms. I didn't just hug her; I collapsed. My knees gave out, and if she hadn't caught me, I would have hit the floor.

"Evelyn! What is it? Are you okay?" Stella’s voice pitched up in panic. She grabbed me tight, her arms acting as a corset holding my shattering pieces together.

It was as if I crashed at that moment. The adrenaline was gone, leaving only the raw, bleeding wound. I sobbed uncontrollably, a guttural, ugly sound that I didn't know I was capable of making. It wasn't just crying; it was keen.

"My eight years..." I choked out, gasping for air. "Stella... my eight years... my eight years..."

"Shhh, shhh," Stella cooed, dragging me inside and kicking the door shut with her foot. "I’ve got you. I’ve got you."

"He’s gone, Stella," I wailed, burying my face in her shoulder, ruining her shirt with my snot and tears. "My eight years, Evelyn... he took my eight years!"

She carried me inside—literally half-carrying, half-dragging me—to the plush beige sofa in her living room. She sat me down, but I wouldn't let go of her hand. I clung to her like a drowning woman clings to a raft.

"Stop crying, Evelyn, please, you’re scaring me," Stella said, her own eyes wide with worry. She brushed the hair out of my sweaty face. "It’s going to be okay. Breathe. Just breathe."

She knelt on the floor in front of me, framing my face with her hands. "Is it Jason?"

The name was a knife in my gut.

"Yes," I sobbed. "Yes, Stella. Jason... he broke up with me."

Stella’s jaw dropped. "What? Tonight? On your anniversary?"

"He gave me a cheque," I cried, the humiliation washing over me afresh. "He gave me ten thousand dollars and told me to get out. After eight years of relationship! After everything! After every sacrifice I have made for Jason, he still left me for another woman!"

"Another woman?" Stella whispered, horror dawning in her eyes.

"He’s getting married," I screamed the words, needing to get them out of my system. "He’s getting married in two days, Stella! Two days! What is my crime? What did I do wrong? Was I not enough? Was I not beautiful enough? Was I not loyal?"

I rocked back and forth, holding my stomach. "I killed my babies for him, Stella. I killed them because he wasn't ready and now he wants an heir with someone else."

Stella pulled me into her chest, wrapping her arms around my head, pressing me tight against her heartbeat.

"It’s okay, it’s okay, Eve," she murmured into my hair, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Stop crying, my love. Stop crying. Why? Why is there so much wickedness? Shhh. I’m here. I’m here."

She rocked me for what felt like hours. "I understand. We can talk about it tomorrow, okay? You need some rest. Look at you. You’re shaking."

"I can't rest," I whimpered. "If I close my eyes, I see him."

"You have to," she said firmly. "Please. Come freshen up."

She stood up and pulled me gently by the hand. She led me to the guest bathroom, turning on the tap and wetting a soft towel. She wiped my face like I was a child, cleaning away the mascara that had stained my cheeks black. She took off my dress—that cursed, expensive dress—and gave me one of her large t-shirts to wear after bathing.

Then she led me to the bedroom and went to the kitchen. "I’m making you something to eat."

"I can’t eat," I called out weakly from the bed, curling into a fetal position under the duvet.

But Stella is a very stubborn person. You have to listen to her. She came back ten minutes later with a cup of hot tea and some toasted bread.

"Eat," she commanded softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You need strength to fight this, Evelyn. And you will survive this. But first, you eat."

I managed to eat a few bites of the toast, though it tasted like cardboard, and drank the tea. The warmth settled in my stomach, slightly dulling the sharp edge of the pain.

She forced me to lie back down. She stayed with me until my breathing evened out, until the exhaustion finally dragged me into a fitful, dreamless darkness.

*****************************************

I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache. My eyes felt swollen shut, glued together by dried tears. For a split second, I forgot. For a split second, I reached out my hand to the other side of the bed, expecting to feel Jason’s warm back.

My hand hit the cold wall of Stella’s guest room.

Reality crashed down on me like a falling building. It wasn't a nightmare. It was Tuesday, and I was single and broke. The love of my life was marrying someone else tomorrow.

My phone, which I had left on the bedside table, began to ring. The shrill sound pierced my aching head.

I rolled over, groaning, and squinted at the screen. It was my sister, Sarah. She lived far away in another country, Canada. She almost never called at this time because of the time difference.

I picked it up, my voice sounding like gravel.

"Hello, sis?" I said, rubbing my sleepy, puffy eyes.

"Eve?" Her voice was sharp, panicked. "Eve, are you there?"

"I'm here," I whispered. "What is it?"

"Eve, what am I hearing?" Sarah demanded, her voice rising an octave. "I just saw the posts. I thought you were dating Jason! I thought you guys were practically engaged!"

My stomach plummeted. "What posts?"

"The tabloids! The blogs!" Sarah was shouting now. "What is going on with all the rumors I’ve been hearing? They are saying Jason Sterling is getting married to the daughter of the Oil Minister! They are posting the invitation cards online, Evelyn! It says the wedding is tomorrow!"

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"And not you," Sarah continued, her voice breaking with confusion and anger. "The bride's name is not Evelyn. What is going on, Evelyn? Tell me this is a mistake."

I gripped the phone, my knuckles turning white. It wasn't just a private breakup anymore. It was public humiliation.

"It's not a mistake, Sarah," I whispered, staring at the ceiling as fresh tears slid down my temple. "It's true."