Saturday, 8:15 AM:
I sat on the floor of my living room, the back of my head resting against the cool wood of the door.
I had been awake for hours, but I wasn't moving.
I had already showered, dressed in a thick, oversized sweater that hid everything, and packed my bag.
But I stayed there, listening.
Then, I heard it. The heavy, familiar rhythm of his boots in the hallway.
He stopped right outside.
I could hear his breathing, slightly rushed, like he'd run from his car.
Then came the knock. Three sharp, confident raps.
"Nuella? Baby, I know you're in there."
His voice was like sandpaper on a raw nerve.
It was the voice that had whispered into my ear in the lounge, the voice that had promised he was mine.
Now, it just sounded like a used car salesman trying to close a deal.
"Nuella, open up.
I brought the croissants from that place you like.
The ones with the almond cream."
He paused, waiting for the sound of the lock turning.
"Listen... last night was a mess.
Mira is a psycho, okay?
She saw us together at the cafe earlier this week and she's been spiraling.
She probably photoshopped those timestamps. You know how she is."
I didn't move. I didn't even breathe. I watched the shadows of his feet through the gap at the bottom of the door.
"Come on, don't be like this," his voice dropped, becoming that low, intimate growl he used when he wanted to melt my resolve.
"I know I messed up by not telling you she was still hovering, but it's because she means nothing.
You're the one. You're the one I was with in that lounge. Doesn't that count for anything?"
Doesn't that count for anything? The audacity made my blood boil.
He was trying to use the intimacy he'd stolen as a bargaining chip.
He tried the handle.
The metal groaned as he put his weight into it, but I had thrown the deadbolt and the security chain.
The door didn't even wiggle.
"Nuella! Stop playing games!" His voice lost its sweetness, the jagged edge of his temper showing through.
"We have to go over the final slides today.
The group is meeting at ten. You can't just lock me out because of some club drama!"
I didn't give him the satisfaction of a shouting match.
I stood up silently, grabbed my keys, and headed for the back balcony.
My apartment was on the first floor; there was a fire escape that led directly to the alleyway where Saraph was waiting in her beat-up sedan.
I climbed over the railing, my heart hammering against my ribs, and dropped the short distance to the pavement.
Saraph was idling the engine, her face a mask of grim determination.
Mateo was in the backseat, his laptop already out, looking like he was preparing for war.
"He still up there?" Saraph asked as I scrambled into the passenger seat.
"Talking to a piece of wood," I said, my voice cold. "He thinks almond croissants are going to fix the fact that he's a liar."
We didn't go to campus. It was Saturday; the library would be full of people who knew us, and Daniel would check the law library first.
Instead, we drove thirty minutes out of the city to a small, greasy-spoon diner that smelled like maple syrup and old vinyl.
We took a booth in the far back, away from the windows.
"Okay," I said, slamming my laptop onto the laminate table.
The screen flickered to life, showing the presentation we had all worked on for weeks.
"Saturday is for the truth. Mateo, show me the budget files again."
Mateo leaned forward.
"I went through the shared drive this morning.
Daniel didn't just 'tweak' the presentation, Nuella.
He's been redirecting the credit for the primary research to his own name in the metadata.
If we had gone to the conference with his version, the professors would have seen him as the sole architect.
We would have looked like his assistants."
I stared at the screen.
The betrayal wasn't just romantic; it was professional.
He had been kissing me in the dark while erasing my hard work in the light.
"He really thought he could have it all," Saraph whispered, shaking her head.
"The girl, the glory, and the side-piece."
"He's not having any of it," I said.
My fingers flew across the keyboard.
"We're locking the shared drive.
Right now.
We're moving the master file to a private cloud.
If he wants to see the final draft, he'll have to see it when we stand up to present on Monday."
"But Nuella," Mateo hesitated.
"He's the lead speaker.
It's written in the project charter.
If we show up and try to bump him, it could disqualify the whole team."
I looked at the window, watching the rain start to smear the glass.
I thought about my father's quiet support this morning, and I thought about the weight of the envelope I'd given Mateo.
I thought about the "Romeo" who was currently standing outside my empty apartment.
"He won't be the lead speaker," I said, my voice as hard as flint.
"Because by the time Monday morning rolls around, Daniel Thorne isn't going to be part of this team at all.
I'm calling a 'special session' with Professor Liam this afternoon.
"You're going to use against him," Saraph breathed, a slow, predatory smile forming on her lips.
"No," I corrected. "I'm going to let Daniel's own actions use him. I'm just providing the evidence."
Just then, my phone buzzed. A text from Daniel.
Daniel: I know you're with Saraph. I'm going to her place next.
Stop being a child, Nuella. You need me for this presentation and you know it. Call me.
I deleted the message without reading it.
"Order some pancakes," I told Saraph. "It's going to be a long Saturday."
The Seed of Doubt
The steam from the coffee rose between us, but it couldn't thaw the chill that had settled in the booth.
Mateo was staring at a smear of syrup on his plate, his expression uncharacteristically dark.
Saraph was restless, her fingers tapping a frantic rhythm against the laminate table.
"Think about it," Mateo said, his voice dropping to a cautious whisper.
"What if Mira lied? What if she's just trying to burn the whole house down because she can't have him? People like that... they don't care about the truth.
They only care about the damage."
Saraph snorted, though there was no humor in it.
"And the photos, Mateo? Did she 'photoshop' him into that jacket from last night? Did she 'photoshop' the way he looked in those pictures? He looked comfortable.
He didn't look like a man being stalked. He looked like a man who was home."
I sat between them, feeling like a spectator at my own funeral.
"It's not just the photos," I said, my voice sounding hollow.
"It's what she said. She called me a 'project.' She said he was bored."
Mateo looked at me, his eyes searching mine.
"Nuella, look at him. Daniel is a high-achiever.
He's obsessed with 'fixing' things, with being the hero.
What if Saraph is right about the truth, but wrong about the motive? What if he's been with you because he likes the feeling of 'saving' someone?"
"That's even worse," Saraph hissed.
She turned to me, her eyes fierce.
"Think about the way he's been acting since the presentation started.
He's always checking in on your notes, 'polishing' your sections, telling you not to worry about the hard parts.
Is he doing that because he loves you, or because he thinks you can't do it without him?"
The thought felt like a cold blade sliding between my ribs.
I remembered the lounge, the heat, the urgency, the way he told me I drove him crazy.
Was that passion, or was it the thrill of a successful "intervention"?
"Mira said he told her he was bored," I whispered, the words tasting like ash.
"If she's lying about him being in her bed, why would she use that specific word?
'Bored with his little project.'
It's too specific, Saraph.
It sounds like something he'd say when he's trying to act 'cool' and detached."
"Exactly," Saraph agreed, leaning in.
"Maybe she is lying about the sleeping together part to hurt you.
But the sentiment? The idea that he sees us all as pawns in his game to be the Best Student, the Best Boyfriend?
That feels like the Daniel we've been seeing in the metadata of these files."
Mateo sighed, rubbing his face with his hands.
"It's the perfect cover.
If he plays the 'bored' card with Mira, he keeps her on the hook.
If he plays the 'protector' card with Nuella, he keeps her under his thumb.
He doesn't have to choose because he's convinced both of you that you need him for different reasons."
"So, what is the truth?"
I asked, looking from Mateo to Saraph.
"Is he a cheater, or is he a sociopath who treats people like academic credits?"
"Does it matter?"
Saraph asked, her voice surprisingly gentle.
"Either way, he's not the guy he told you he was.
If she lied about the cheating, he's still a liar for what he said about you.
If she told the truth about the cheating, he's just a cliché.
Both versions end with him standing on your shoulders to look taller."
I looked at my phone. Another text had just come in.
I didn't even have to open it to know it was more of the same, appeals to my emotions, excuses about "crazy exes."
"He thinks I'm a project," I said, my voice hardening.
"He thinks he can 'manage' my reaction the same way he manages the data sets.
He's waiting for me to go through the 'emotional phase' so he can move me back into the 'compliant partner' phase."
I reached for my laptop and pulled the screen back towards me.
"If I'm a project," I whispered, my fingers hovering over the keys, "then I'm declaring this one officially closed.
Mateo, you were right to question it.
But look at the evidence.
Look at how he's handled us.
A man who respects his 'project' doesn't hide it, and he certainly doesn't get 'bored' with the truth."
"Order some more coffee," I told Saraph, my eyes fixed on the screen.
"We aren't just rewriting the presentation.
We're rewriting the power dynamic.
If he wants 'boredom,' I'm going to give him the most boring Monday of his life, because he's not going to have a single word to say."