Mid-May 2026 bathed Tod’s Point in a golden glow, the Long Island Sound shimmering as I stood on the Greenwich beach where Justin and I had bared our love a year ago. One week had passed since the Met Gala, where my sapphire gown, dripping with crystals to match the auction necklace, had dazzled under New York’s lights. Xiamond’s Paris X posts—her cryptic He’s still my muse—had stirred TMZ and E! News rumors, but Justin’s fierce reassurance on that balcony had quieted my doubts. I’d moved to Montclair, New Jersey, last year, trading The Gilded Spoon’s chaos for college and a bookstore job, my jet-black hair now shoulder-length, my plus-sized curves in a simple white sundress. Tonight, Justin had asked me here, his text vague but warm: Meet me at our spot. 7 PM. My heart raced, a mix of lov
