MARKED BY THE MEN I SHOULDN'T WANT

The crystal chandeliers above shimmered like falling stars, dripping gold and ego. Every conversation sparkled with thinly veiled ambition, laughter loud enough to drown out any real feeling. This was no party — it was a performance, and Terry had always hated theatre. She didn’t want to be here. Not among them. Not tonight. Everyone smelled of wealth, politics, and false promises — expensive cologne mixed with power and pretense. Her father had insisted on her attendance. “A chance to be seen,” he said. “Among the right people.” What he meant was: Someone needs to carry this family forward, and your face is our best asset. She wore her mother’s diamond earrings, heavy reminders of obligation, not elegance. They sparkled beautifully — just like shackles sometimes do. And then she saw him. No — she heard him. “You don’t look bored enough to be one of them,” someone said. She turned. He stood beside the hors d’oeuvre table, casually biting into a bacon-wrapped date like he owned the place, despite looking like he’d crashed through the back door. His dark blazer was slightly wrinkled, tie loose, posture confident in a way that made her second-guess if he belonged there or just belonged everywhere. She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” “You heard me.” He grinned. “I’m Austin.” “I didn’t ask.” “Exactly. That’s how I know you’re interesting.” Her lips tugged into the ghost of a smile. “So why are you here, Austin?” “To steal corporate secrets. Or maybe just a napkin.” “Wow." she deadpanned. "So original.” “I try.” He stepped closer, eyes warm and teasing. “Alright, your turn. Why are you here?” She sipped her champagne. “I’m scouting husbands. Preferably one who owns oil.” He laughed—loud, full, honest. “God, I like you.” The lies hung in the air, playful and mutual. They both knew the other wasn’t telling the truth. But sometimes, lies feel more real than the life you're living. They slipped out of the gala through a service door, her heels in her hand, diamond earrings in her clutch, her laughter echoing down the corridor. A black car waited out front, but they didn’t get in. “You hungry?” Austin asked. “I don’t eat food I can’t pronounce.” “Perfect answer.” The city’s heart was loud, alive, and nothing like the ballroom. The Central Business District at night was a creature of motion — honking traffic, shouting vendors, blinking signs. The smell of roast meat mingled with car exhaust and ambition. Terry had never walked these streets like this. Not in a gown. Not with fries in one hand and soda in the other. Not with someone who looked at her like she was the whole world. He showed her where to get the crispiest fries, the fluffiest crepes, and the greasiest, most delicious food wrapped in yesterday’s news. “People live like this?” she whispered, equal parts wonder and disbelief. “People thrive like this,” he said. “You don’t have to be rich to be real.” She looked around. The crowd moved like a river — vendors, students, hustlers, beggars, lovers. Children danced in circles. Music blared from a nearby electronics shop. Steam rose from food carts. Life pulsed with messy, imperfect joy. Her father would faint if he saw her now. Austin handed her a paper plate. “Try this.” She bit into a hot, spicy dumpling and moaned. “God, this is better than anything at that stupid party.” “Told you.” They sat on the curb, fries between them. She told him about her hopes and dreams. He told her about his childhood, raised by a mechanic and a dreamer, taught to fight for what didn’t come easy. “You’ve never looked more you,” he said, watching her lick ketchup from her fingers. She rolled her eyes. “You’re corny.” “And you’re glowing.” She laughed, eyes wide, heart full. The city blurred around them. For a night, they weren't from two different worlds — they were from none at all. Now — Now the kitchen was too quiet. Too clean. Too bright. Terry stood at the marble counter, her hands cupped around a glass of orange juice she had no intention of drinking. She stared into it like it held the answers she was too afraid to ask. Her reflection in the oven’s glossy door looked tired. Hair too neat. Smile forgotten. She used to hum while she cooked. Now silence followed her like a shadow. Then the front door clicked open. Footsteps. A shift in the air. Austin walked in, keys in hand, phone in the other, face unreadable. He didn’t even glance at her until he reached the fridge. “You’re awake,” he said. Same voice. But the tone was different. Too neutral. Too detached. Like someone reporting the weather. And then he said it. “Your hands are too soft to get hurt.” She froze. The burn mark on her index finger throbbed like a memory. He had said that line the first week they moved in together. When she’d burnt herself trying to make breakfast for him. Back then, he’d kissed the spot and teased, “I’ll handle the kitchen if you promise not to destroy yourself.” Now, he said it like an afterthought. No warmth. No mischief. Just… air. Terry blinked. Her voice trembled. “What’s wrong?” He opened the fridge door. “Nothing.” “You haven’t looked at me in days.” “I’ve been busy.” “With her?” He stilled. That silence. Again. Sharp and suffocating. Terry’s breath caught. “So it’s true.” Austin closed the fridge. Slowly. Deliberately. “I don’t want to have this conversation right now.” “But you’ll sleep with someone else while we’re still married?” “It’s not what you think.” Her eyes burned. “Then explain it to me. Explain how the man who once kissed my burns now looks at me like I’m an inconvenience.” He turned to her. Finally, but the look in his eyes was worse than hate. It was emptiness. “I see you, Terry. But now I see what you are.” The words sliced through her like paper cuts — small, sharp, bleeding slowly. She stepped back. “And what exactly is that?” “A woman pretending to be happy. Just like I’ve been pretending to love you.” The air fled the room. She stared at him, lips parting, but no sound came. Her ring felt too heavy on her hand. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said, voice low. Terry backed away until her spine hit the counter. She wanted to scream. Cry. Throw something. But instead, she whispered, “Then go.” Austin didn’t argue. He picked up his keys again and walked out — without slamming the door. It was worse that he closed it gently.