Nora's Revenge on Her Ex

The condensation on the bottle of Veuve Clicquot was ruining the mahogany finish of the dining table, but I didn’t care. Tonight was the finish line. After three years of scrimping, three years of eating ramen so Nathan could eat steak, and three years of funding a law degree on a jewelry designer’s erratic income, Nathan Jones had passed the bar. He had the job at the top-tier firm in Manhattan. We had made it.

The lock tumbled. I smoothed the skirt of the vintage dress I’d altered myself, forcing a smile onto lips that felt tight from anxiety. I expected him to burst in, lifting me off the ground in a spin of relief and cheap cologne.

Instead, the door swung open slowly. Nathan stood there, looking devastatingly handsome in the charcoal suit I had put on my credit card last month. But he wasn’t holding flowers. He was holding a hand. A hand with manicured red nails that I recognized instantly.

Lainey Black stepped out from behind him, her fingers laced through his. My best friend. The girl I’d fed, clothed, and treated like the sister I never had.

The air left the room. The scent of the rosemary chicken I’d roasted suddenly smelled cloying, like rot.

"Nora," Nathan said. His voice wasn’t apologetic; it was professional. Detached. Like he was reading a deposition. "We need to talk."

I didn’t move. My eyes were fixed on where their skin touched. "You’re early."

"I got the offer," Nathan said, stepping fully into the apartment, pulling Lainey with him. She wouldn’t meet my eyes, staring instead at the champagne bottle with a small, triumphant smirk. "But things are different now. New York… it’s a different world. It requires a certain caliber of partner."

"A caliber?" I repeated, the words tasting like ash. "I’m not a handgun, Nathan."

"You’re a small-business owner, Nora. You’re rustic. Sweet," he added, the compliment landing like a slap. "But Lainey understands the social demands of my future. We’re… soulmates. We realized it a few months ago. We didn't want to distract you while you were working so hard."

"Distract me?" My voice was dangerously quiet. The heat rising in my chest wasn't sorrow; it was a molten, white-hot clarity. "You mean while I was paying your rent?"

Lainey finally spoke, her voice a high, feigned sweetness. "Oh, Nora, don't make this about money. It’s about love. You can’t put a price on true love."

I looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the hunger behind her eyes. She didn't love him. She loved the suit. She loved the title.

I didn't scream. I didn't throw the champagne. I simply turned my back on them and walked to my desk. My hands didn't shake. The muscle memory of running a business took over. I woke my laptop, the screen glowing blue in the dim room, and opened the file I’d named *NJ_Expenses.xlsx*. I had kept it for tax purposes, a meticulous record of every shared expense,