Rejected by my mate, chosen by the prince.

2

Lila

The door to Claridge’s slams behind me. The London rain doesn't wait. She slaps me, thin, cold.

Perfect. I deserve this.

I raise my arm. A black taxi pulls over. The driver rolls down the window.

“Where to, miss?”

My voice gets stuck. The address of the apartment. Our apartment. Except it's not ours anymore. It's mine. Empty.

“Chelsea. Flood Street.” I'm going up. I slam the door harder than necessary. The driver glances at me in the rear view mirror. Lipstick, evening dress, dry eyes. He must think I just came back from a date gone bad.

He's right.

The journey takes twelve minutes. Twelve minutes where I last. Straight back. Controlled breathing.

I stare at the drops running down the window. They are racing. Like the thoughts in my head.

I fell in love with Chloe.

I fell in love with Chloe.

I fell in love with Chloe.

The taxi stops. I pay without looking. I tip too much. I don't care. The building stares at me. Three floors. The windows on. Ours, on the second floor, is off. Obviously. He didn't come back. He won't come home again.

The keys shake in my hand. Second floor, left door. The brass plaque still J. Carter and L. Matthews.

A metal lie.

I push the door. The smell hits me. Its scent. Ours. Morning coffee, books, her mint shower gel. It's all there. Except him.

And that's where it breaks down.

Not a sob. A cry. Hoarse. Animal. He tears my throat on the way out. I place a hand over my mouth to muffle it. Very late. Sound bounces off the empty walls.

I let go of my pouch. She falls. The contents spill out: lipstick, handkerchief, telephone, the taxi ticket. The debris of my evening. The debris of my life.

The heels. I tear them off. One, then the other. I throw them. One hits the wall. The other misses the photo frame of our engagement placed on the console. The window cracks. My smiling face, under a spider's web of broken glass.

Poetic.I slide along the door. Back against the wood. The red dress rides up the thighs. I don't care. There is no one to see. There will never be anyone again.

And I cry.

No elegant tears like in the movies. No. I cry with big sobs which shake me, which empty me. Which burn my nose, my throat, my eyes. I cry for the three years. For the house with garden that we were looking at on Righ tmove. For the children we had already named. For the stupid girl who said, James this is my cousin Chloe.

I cry with rage.

I dig my nails into my palms. Until the blood. Physical pain is simpler. Cleaner. It has a beginning, an end. Not like that.

“b***h,” I spit. I don't know if I'm talking about Chloe or me. Both perhaps. “You bitch.”

My phone vibrates on the floor. A message.

James: Lilia I'm sorry. Can we talk tomorrow? I'll go get my things.

His business.

I jump up. The head is spinning. I cross the living room. I open the cupboard. His costumes. His shirts. Its smell. I shoot everything. On the floor. One, two, ten hangers. Buttons pop. The expensive fabric sprawls like a corpse.

I take his shoes. I throw them out the window. They fall into the street, two floors below. I don't care. Let a passerby take them. Let him wear the pomp of a traitor.

I stop, out of breath. In the middle of the c*****e.

And in the silence, a single thought arises. Clear. Cold.

He chose Chloe.

He didn't choose me.

I fall onto the bed. Our bed. I breathe in his pillow. One last time. Then I throw him to the ground.

I bring my knees to my chest. The red dress, wrinkled, soaked in rain and tears.

This night, I don't sleep.

That night, Lila Matthews, the fiancée, dies.

Tomorrow, another will wake up. I don't know who yet. But she won't cry anymore. Never again for James Carter.

The day dawns without asking permission.

A gray line cuts the curtains. 6:12 a.m. marks the wall clock. I don't remember falling asleep. I remember the ceiling. Cracks that I counted so as not to think. One, two, fifteen. Then nothing more.

My mouth is thick. Sandpaper eyes. The red dress sticks to my skin, wrinkled, stiff with salt.

The bed is an island. On the other side, the sheet is intact. Cold. Nobody slept there. No one will sleep there anymore.

The room smells of disaster. Perfume, sweat and the metallic smell of dried tears. On the floor, the pillow. The hangers. The debris of yesterday.

I fell in love with Chloe. The sentence is there as soon as I open my eyes. A tattoo on the brain.

I stand up. Every muscle protests. The emotional hangover. It's worse than alcohol. Alcohol, at least you chose it.

My phone, on the ground, screen turned over. 17 missed calls.

12 of my mother.

4 of James

1 from Chloe.

Chloe. My finger hovers over his name. DELETE. To block. No. Not yet. If I block her, I give her power. I'd rather see it coming. I prefer to know when it will strike.

I get up. The legs are trembling. In the wardrobe mirror, I don't recognize myself. Mascara in black rivers. Smeared lipstick. Messy hair. Cinderella's ball dress after midnight. Except that midnight struck and the prince left with the half-sister.

The bathroom. I turn on the tap. The water is freezing. I splash my face. It wakes you up. It doesn't fix it.

His toothbrush is still there. Blue. Next to mine, pink. I take it. The stares at her. Then I throw it in the trash. The noise is ridiculously satisfying.

In the kitchen, the coffee machine flashes. Scheduled at 7 a.m., like every morning. Our routine.

I turn it off. Dry.

My finger has a white mark. The absence of a ring. I rub. As if I could erase three years.

I can't.

The doorbell rings. 7:03. My heart skips a beat. James? Is he coming to get his things? Already ?I look through the peephole.

My mother.

Arms crossed. Concern etched on the forehead. She must have called James. He had to tell her.

I inhale. Once. Twice. I swallow everything. The pain, the rage, the 5-year-old who wants to hide under the duvet. I unlock.

She enters without a word. She takes me in her arms. She smells of lavender. And that's where I break down. Again. No shouting this time. Just silent tears wetting his shoulder.

“My darling…” she whispers. “James called me. He told me…”

“That he chose Chloe.” I finish in his place. My voice is hoarse. Worn. “I know mom, I was there.”

She steps back. She holds me by the shoulders. She explains it to me. The dress. The c*****e behind me. The girl she no longer recognizes.

“Lila…”

“Don’t say anything.” I shake my head.

“Don’t say it’ll be okay. Don't say I'll find something better. Not today.”

She nods. She understands. She's my mother.

“Okay.” she takes a breath. “So what are we doing today?”

I look at the apartment. The vestiges of a life together. I look at my empty hands. And an idea sprouts. Cold. Clear. Dangerous.

“Today,” I say, “I get my life back.”

I don't know how yet. I still don't know who I am without him.

But I know one thing, James Carter and Chloe Bennett just created a monster.

And this monster no longer wears a red dress.

He wears armor...