Revenge Against Betrayal

The hotel room was cold despite the expensive heating system. Or maybe the chill came from somewhere inside me as Logan held out that check—five million dollars written in his precise handwriting, the same hand that used to trace patterns on my skin in the dark.

"What is this?" My voice sounded strange, distant, like it belonged to someone else.

"Compensation." He didn't meet my eyes. After ten years together, he couldn't even look at me. "For your support over the years."

Support. Such a clinical word for what I'd given him. The bartending shifts that left my feet bleeding. The times I'd gone without eating so he could afford his bar exam prep courses. The nights I'd held him when he doubted himself, whispering that he was brilliant, that he'd make it, that we'd make it together.

"Logan, if this is a joke—"

"It's not." He adjusted his cufflinks—new ones, platinum, probably cost more than my monthly rent. "We've grown apart, Katherine. You must feel it too."

I didn't feel it. I felt the same way I'd felt at twenty-two when I'd chosen him over everything else. But looking at him now in his tailored suit, his hair styled by some expensive salon, his whole appearance screaming success—I realized he was right about one thing. We had grown apart. He'd grown up and away, and somehow I'd missed the moment when I'd become too small for his new life.

"Take the money," he said, and there was something almost gentle in his tone, which made it worse somehow. "Move on with dignity. I'm moving forward with my life, and you should too."

He left me standing there, the check trembling in my hands. Through the window, I could see the party continuing below—champagne glasses catching the light, beautiful people celebrating Logan's triumph. Our triumph, I'd thought just hours ago. But there was no 'our' anymore. There was only him, ascending to heights I'd helped him reach, and me, left behind with a check that felt like a price tag on ten years of my life.

I should have torn it up. Thrown it in his face. Instead, I folded it carefully and put it in my purse, because years of scraping by had taught me that pride was a luxury I couldn't always afford.

The next morning, I woke in my cramped apartment hoping desperately that the previous night had been some kind of nightmare. My phone screen glowed in the dim light, and I made the mistake of unlocking it.

Three hundred and forty-seven notifications.

My hands went numb as I opened the first one. Logan's face smiled up at me from my social media feed, but he wasn't alone. Amber Willis—sweet, grateful Amber who I'd supported through college, through her mother's medical bills, through every small crisis for ten years—was wrapped in his arms. They stood on the hotel terrace where the celebration had been held. The same celebration I'd left early, dismissed with a check.

The