Chapter 2

On the eve of the hurricane's landfall, dark clouds hung so low they seemed about to crush the city.

The entire metro area was under a red alert. All the trains were suspended, and incoming and outgoing flights were all canceled.

This was the first time in my twenty-four years that I had ever left the inland state where I grew up. I'd never experienced weather this extreme before, and the sheer violence of it stirred an instinctive sense of dread deep in my chest.

Any reasonably safe hotel in the area had long been fully booked by stranded travelers and locals seeking shelter. Ultimately, right before the wind and rain paralyzed the streets, I was forced to shell out triple the usual rate just to duck into a rundown budget hotel.

Noise isolation was nonexistent. The window panes rattled continuously against the wind, threatening to shatter at any second.

At 9:30 that night, with a loud, muffled pop, the entire block lost power.

In the pitch black, I sat propped against the narrow bed, listening to the howling wind outside, as though it were tearing the building apart.

My nerves were stretched to their limit. I clutched my phone, the faint glow of its screen the only source of light left in the room.

At ten o'clock sharp, Candace's message arrived right on cue.

It was a 30-second voice note. I tapped play, and her familiar voice echoed in the dark, tinged with a hint of exhaustion.

"Parker, we finally got through half of the proposal. The storm outside is terrifying. I wonder if it's raining in your city.

"I wish I could wrap my arms around you right now. Looks like I'll be pulling an all-nighter tonight, so go to sleep early, okay? See you in my dreams."

Staring at the audio wave playing on the screen, I typed back with no emotion.

[The hurricane is so bad out there. Didn't your office building lose power?]

The reply came almost instantly.

[We're on backup generators. You know how corporate bosses are. They couldn't care less about us. But honestly, whenever I think about how I'm grinding for our future, I don't feel tired at all.]

Then she sent a photo. The office blinds were drawn shut, with files scattered across the desk. A laptop screen glowed brightly next to a cup of coffee topped with intricate latte art.

I zoomed in on the photo, my eyes locked on the coffee mug. The latte art was shaped like a heart, but the bottom right corner was slightly distorted.

Suddenly, that flaw looked eerily familiar.

Exiting the chat, I opened the search bar, typed in the word "overtime," and rapidly scrolled up through our message history.

Sure enough, on a weekend three months ago, she had sent the same photo. The framing was identical, down to the distorted heart in the foam and the precise angle of the crease on the document sitting at the edge of the desk.

Not only was she lying about being at work, but even the picture she used to blow me off was a recycled old shot.

When disappointment hit rock bottom, it brought a surge of brutal clarity. Following the trail, I kept scrolling back through our chat logs.

The further I went, the colder I felt.

Over the past year, she had claimed to be "working late all weekend" on at least five different occasions, each time sending a differently cropped version of this same photo.

Sometimes, she cropped the documents on the left. Other times, she zoomed in on the coffee on the right. She had pulled the same stunt for three whole years.

With these recycled photos and scheduled voice calls, she had meticulously crafted the image of a hardworking, deeply devoted girlfriend.

And I had been standing a thousand miles away, aching for her hard work while staring at old photos like a fool.

Outside, the gale shrieked with increasing fury.

I clicked off my phone screen and let myself sink into the darkness.