Emily
I always imagined that if my world were ever to fall apart, it would happen in slow motion, giving me time to prepare, to brace myself for the impact. But reality isn't kind, reality shatters everything in a single second.
Today wasn't just any other day. No, today was the day. The day I officially became the youngest recipient of the Rising Star Award in Journalism. I had finally done it—my name would go down in history! My happiness knew no bounds. If joy had a speed limit, I was definitely overspeeding.
And, of course, I looked every inch the part. Draped in a flawlessly tailored neon designer suit—so bright you'd think I personally wanted to blind my haters—I sat elegantly in my chair, crossing my legs like I owned the whole damn city. My blonde curls were sitting just right, and my lips, coated in a bold, scandalous red, were impossible to ignore. Not gonna lie, I love being noticed.
The host approached the podium, cracking a few jokes that had the audience chuckling like tipsy wedding guests. And then, finally, he said it:
"Join me in welcoming the youngest recipient of the Rising Star Award in Journalism… Mrs. Emily Smith!"
Before my name was even fully out of his mouth, the crowd erupted. People were cheering like I had just descended from heaven. I mean, was I the Beyoncé of journalism? Who's to say?
I strutted to the podium, gripping a small piece of paper containing my speech notes. I waited for the applause to subside, flashing a dazzling smile until the room finally quieted down.
"Thank you, thank you all so very much," I began, tilting my head slightly for dramatic effect. Then, I scoffed—because even I still couldn't believe I was holding this award.
"I wanna be humble and say I probably don't deserve this, but that would be a big fat lie." The audience roared with laughter. "I worked my ass off for this, and I'm just so happy that it finally paid off."
I took a moment, exhaling as I glanced at the award in my hands.
"I dedicate this to my father. I know that I'll probably never accomplish half of what he did, but I truly, truly wish he was here to see this moment." The crowd fell into a soft, melancholic hush. I continued, voice steady but laced with emotion.
"To my dearest mother, who worked so hard to make sure I never suffered for a single thing after my father passed, this is for you. Even though she didn't show up—probably busy, I assume—I know she has a damn good excuse."
"And of course, this speech would be incomplete without mentioning my king, my heart, the love of my life—Dr. George Smith. My strikingly hot husband who, unfortunately, couldn't be here tonight because he had an emergency surgery to attend to. Because, you know, saving lives is kind of important."
The audience chuckled softly, some even letting out exaggerated "awws."
"But, baby, I know you're going to watch this later, and I just want to say—thank you for always coming to my aid, for being the most understanding, kind, and sweet man ever. I love you!"
I turned back to the crowd, lifting my award high.
"And to every aspiring journalist out there—the sky is your limit! Never, ever give up on your dream. This right here is proof that hard work pays off."
With that, I flashed one last dazzling smile and exited the podium with the elegance of a queen who knew she had just owned the moment.
Mic drop. Well, Metaphorically.
The car door shut behind me as I walked up to the front door of my home, finally about to be with my husband, after a hectic but incredible day. I noticed my mother's car parked in the driveway and let out a sigh. I already knew why she was here—to apologize for missing my big night. And while I loved my mother, tonight, all I wanted was to collapse into George's arms and spend the night uninterrupted.
Can't a girl catch a break?
I stepped into the house, fully prepared to fake a polite smile, but I stopped dead in my tracks. My mouth fell open.
Balloons.
They were everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, tied to chairs, floating in clusters—heart-shaped, pastel-colored, just how I liked them. Candlelights flickered, trailing a warm, golden path leading straight to our bedroom.
My hand flew to my mouth.
This man. This man.
Even after all these years, he still found ways to surprise me. I should be used to it by now, but no—George always outdid himself.
A giddy squeal almost slipped past my lips, but I caught it just in time, pressing my palm against my mouth. Tonight was already special, but now? Now it was perfect.
I moved further into the house, my heart pounding with excitement. But just as I reached the stairs, I heard something.
A voice.
It wasn't George's.
I frowned, tilting my head, straining to make out the words. It was familiar. Too familiar. But I couldn't quite piece it together.
I figured it had to be my mom somewhere upstairs. Maybe she was helping George with the surprise. Maybe she was in the guest room. Maybe—
I kept climbing the stairs, my heart still light, still happy. Too happy.
Finally, I reached our bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, and I smiled, placing my hand on the handle. I took a deep breath, bracing myself to take in the surprise, my lips already curling into a grin.
I pushed the door open.
And then—
I stumbled.
My knees buckled as a sudden, sickening weight crushed my chest. My breath hitched. My vision blurred. My ears rang so loudly I thought I had gone deaf.
But I hadn't.
I was seeing this. I was hearing this. And it was real.
There, lying in our bed, tangled under our duvet, was my husband.
Not just with any woman.
With my mother.
My very own mother.
She was curled up against him, her hand tracing lazy circles on his bare chest, smiling like she didn't have a single care in the world. Like she belonged there. Like I didn't exist.
George, half-asleep, barely even present, shifted slightly beneath her touch.
I felt sick. I felt dead.
I couldn't cry. I couldn't scream. I couldn't move.
My brain refused to process it. My vision kept zooming in and out as if I was trapped in some sick, twisted nightmare. I kept waiting to wake up, for the dream to end.
But it didn't.
And then—
A single tear slipped down my cheek.
I sniffled.
And just like that, my mother turned.
Her eyes met mine. Her face twisted in sheer panic.
"Oh my God, Emily! It's not what you think!" she shrieked, flinging the duvet off as she scrambled toward me.
Not what I think?
NOT WHAT I THINK?
I took a shaky step back.
This woman—this woman—was the one who had taught me to be tough. To always be prepared for betrayal. She used to say, "People are volatile, Emily. You never know when they'll stab you in the back. Always stay one step ahead."
I never thought she'd be the one to drive the knife straight into my heart.
I turned on my heel and ran.
My breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.
I needed to get out of here.
I reached my car, flung open the door, and slammed it shut, locking it immediately. My mother's frantic pounding on the window barely even registered.
I buried my face into the steering wheel.
And then, the dam broke.
The sobs tore through my body, wracking me so hard I could barely breathe. I clawed at my heart, as if trying to reach inside and rip out the pain. But it wouldn't stop. It wouldn't stop.
My husband. My mother. The two people I trusted the most.
My life is over.
I had no home. No husband. No mother. Nowhere to go.
The entire city suddenly felt suffocating.
With trembling hands, I fumbled for my phone. I dialed the only number that made sense.
Tami.
My last hope.
I prayed—God, please—that she hadn't boarded her flight yet. Because right now, she was the only person I had left.