When My Best Friend Became His Mistress I Escaped

A week before the wedding, I stumbled upon an anniversary app on Cayson’s tablet. Many entries had faded with time:

[First kiss was 631 days ago.]

[First intimate night was 397 days ago.]

[You broke your promise 183 days ago.]

I froze, feeling as though I'd been plunged into an icy abyss. These dates didn’t match mine. Scrolling further, I found a few upcoming reminders:

[Your birthday is in 2 days.]

[Giving up on you in 7 days.]

In two days, it would be Ariah's birthday, my best friend. And in seven, I was supposed to marry Cayson. My hands went numb, and the tablet crashed to the floor, shattering.

“What happened, babe?” Cayson called from the kitchen, oblivious to the turmoil within me. Unable to respond, I felt my world tremble as I deleted the wedding invitations that were supposed to go out. Then, I accepted the company’s offer for a position abroad in Northern Europe.

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A tight grip squeezed my heart. I could hardly breathe. Cayson, hearing no reply, wandered into the study.

“Why are you giving me the cold shoulder, baby?” He glanced at the shattered tablet on the floor, and realization dawned in his eyes. He gathered me in his arms, trying to console me. “Careless, aren’t you? Go relax in the living room; I’ll tidy up here.”

Cayson guided me out of the study, taking charge of the mess. I had to admit, he had seemed to change recently. From an impulsive, self-centered trust-fund kid to a thoughtful and gentle fiancé.

Everyone said it was the upcoming wedding that had matured him. Until today, I had wholeheartedly believed them, deeply moved.

“Come on, babe! Check out the pulled pork I made. It’s your favorite, slow-cooked to perfection.” Cayson appeared from the kitchen, holding a plate. Wearing just an apron over his broad, sturdy frame, he looked almost charmingly larger-than-life.

“What are you gawking at, love? Don’t let your mind drift. Dig in; you’ll need your energy for more fun later.” He tapped my forehead with a playful grin, recalling last night when we had gotten carried away on the kitchen island.

A wave of nausea hit me suddenly.

Six hundred and thirty-one days ago marked three years of our rocky relationship during its most turbulent phase. Three hundred and ninety-seven days ago, I was drowning in heartbreak from our breakup, feeling at my lowest. While I cried myself to sleep over him, was he using this same teasing tone with my best friend?

Still dazed, Cayson had already served my meal.

“Why aren’t you eating, sweetie?” He placed a hand on my shoulder, and I flinched as if shocked.

Cayson frowned slightly, “What’s wrong, Trinity? Doesn't it taste good? You used to love this.”

True, the first time he cooked for me, I was taken aback and showered his dishes with praise, feeling cherished. But deception doesn’t hold up under scrutiny. Back then, he prepared a spread of pork, chicken, and beef, most of