After My Fiancé Kissed His Assistant, I Left Him

The candlelight flickered across Victor's face as he raised his champagne glass. The restaurant had been his choice—one of those places where the waitstaff moved like ghosts between tables and the bill arrived without prices. I'd spent hours getting ready, my black dress carefully chosen to impress the new client he'd been pursuing for months.

"To landing Westbrook Industries," Victor said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Your speech was perfect, Maeve. They couldn't say no."

I smiled back, warmth spreading through my chest at the rare compliment. "We make a good team."

"We do." His gaze shifted to his phone as it buzzed on the table. His fingers moved across the screen, typing something quickly before he looked up. "Sorry. Work never stops."

I nodded, swallowing the familiar disappointment. Five years together, three in this apartment, and still his phone came first.

"Actually," Victor said, setting down his glass with deliberate care, "I've been meaning to ask you something."

My heart skipped. Was this finally happening?

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. "Maeve Harper, will you marry me?"

The words hung in the air between us. I stared at the ring—a solitaire diamond that caught the light in fractured rainbows.

"Yes," I whispered, then louder: "Yes, of course."

Victor slid the ring onto my finger, then glanced at his phone again as it lit up with a notification. His thumbs moved rapidly across the screen.

"Who are you texting?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

"Just letting James know the good news," he said, not looking up. "He's been asking about our plans."

I nodded, twisting the ring on my finger. It felt heavy, foreign. "I thought we could plan something special for the engagement party. Maybe that rooftop bar you like?"

"Mmm," Victor hummed noncommittally, still typing.

He finally set his phone down and pulled me into a hug that felt rushed, his mind already elsewhere.

---

Three days later, I sat cross-legged on our couch, scrolling through Pinterest for engagement party ideas. Nothing felt right. The ring on my finger caught the afternoon light streaming through our floor-to-ceiling windows, but something felt hollow about the whole thing.

My phone pinged with a notification. A video had appeared in my feed—the algorithm's suggestion based on my recent searches.

"My Boss is the Cutest" read the caption in cursive font.

I tapped play, intending to scroll past, when a familiar voice filled my ears.

"You're hopeless," the voice laughed. Victor's voice.

My finger froze above the screen.

The camera panned up from a woman's waist-length brown hair to show Victor's hands gently tying it back with a silk scarf. His fingers lingered against her neck in a gesture so intimate I felt like a voyeur.

"Perfect," he murmured, and I recognized the tone—one I hadn't heard directed at me in years.

The video cut to another clip: Victor draping his suit jacket over the same woman's shoulders as they walked