Dahlia's POV
"Cobb has such good taste in jewelry."
Ivana's words hang in the air like poison. I stare at the bracelet on her wrist – my bracelet. The one Cobb claimed was made just for me.
"Where did you get that?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
Ivana glances down at her wrist, then back at me with those wide, innocent eyes. "This? Cobb gave it to me for my birthday. Wasn't that sweet of him?"
Cobb shifts uncomfortably beside her. "Rose, you should probably head home. It's getting late."
But she doesn't move. Instead, she steps closer to me, her expression suddenly concerned.
"Dahlia, you look so pale. Are you feeling alright?"
I can't breathe. The room feels too small, too hot. That bracelet – he told me it took him months to find. He said the stars represented our future together.
"I'm fine," I manage.
"Are you sure? You seem upset." Ivana tilts her head. "Oh no, is it because of the bracelet? I hope you don't mind that Cobb got me one too. When I saw yours at Christmas, I mentioned how much I loved it, and he's just so thoughtful."
She touches the bracelet again, making the little stars catch the light.
"Actually," her voice drops to a whisper, "I should probably go. I don't want to cause any problems between you two."
With that, she gives Cobb a quick hug and glides toward the door. "Thanks again for the most wonderful birthday weekend. I'll never forget it."
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
I turn to Cobb. "The most wonderful birthday weekend?"
"Dahlia, don't start."
"Don't start what? Asking questions about my fiancé disappearing for days with another woman?"
Cobb's jaw tightens. "She's not another woman. She's my sister."
"Your adopted sister who you buy matching jewelry with. Your adopted sister who you take on romantic island getaways."
"There was nothing romantic about it."
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Right. Just a man and woman alone on a paradise island, sharing champagne and sunset photos."
"You're being ridiculous."
"Am I? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you have a girlfriend named Ivana and a backup plan named Dahlia."
Cobb's face darkens. "That's enough."
"No, it's not enough. It's not nearly enough." I stand up, anger finally overtaking the hurt. "All these years, Cobb. All these years of watching you choose her over me. All these years of being told I'm overreacting when I point out how inappropriate your relationship is."
"There's nothing inappropriate about caring for someone who needs me."
"What about me? Don't I need you?"
Cobb runs his hands through his hair. "It's different with you. You're strong. You don't need taking care of."
"Everyone needs taking care of sometimes."
"Not like Ivana does. She's fragile."
That word again. Fragile. As if being fragile gives her the right to steal my fiancé.
"I'm done," I say quietly.
Cobb's head snaps up. "Done with what?"
"This. Us. All of it."
For a moment, something flickers in his eyes. Fear, maybe. Or surprise that I finally grew a spine.
"You don't mean that."
"I absolutely mean that."
I walk to our bedroom and start pulling clothes out of the closet. Cobb follows me.
"Dahlia, come on. You're upset. Let's talk about this tomorrow when you've calmed down."
I keep packing. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Where are you even going to go?"
"Anywhere but here."
Cobb grabs my arm, stopping me mid-fold. "You can't just leave. We have a life together."
"No, Cobb. You have a life with Ivana. I'm just the roommate who pays half the rent."
I pull away from him and continue packing. Cobb watches me for a few minutes, then leaves the room. I hear him on the phone in the living room, his voice low and urgent.
Probably calling Ivana to complain about me.
I pack two suitcases and head for the door. Cobb intercepts me in the hallway.
"This is stupid, Dahlia. You're throwing away all these years because of some jewelry?"
"I'm throwing away all these years because my fiancé is in love with someone else."
"I'm not in love with Ivana."
"Then prove it. Choose me. Right now. Tell her you can't see her anymore."
Cobb's silence is my answer.
"That's what I thought."
I push past him toward the door.
"Wait." His voice stops me. "What about our wedding?"
I turn back. "What wedding? You can't even be bothered to get a marriage license."
"We'll get it this week. I promise."
"Your promises don't mean anything anymore."
I leave him standing in the hallway and drive to Tilda's apartment. She takes one look at my face and pulls me inside.
"What did that asshole do now?"
I tell her everything. About the bracelet, about Ivana's fake concern, about Cobb's continued defense of their relationship.
"I can't believe you stayed this long," Tilda says when I finish. "Girl, you should have run years ago."
"I thought he'd change. I thought if I was patient enough, understanding enough, he'd eventually choose me."
"The only thing you should choose right now is a good lawyer."
I stay at Tilda's for the next few days. Cobb calls constantly, leaving voicemails that range from angry to pleading. I don't answer any of them.
A few days later, my phone rings with a number I don't recognize.
"Dahlia? It's Celeste. From high school?"
Celeste Victor. We were close once, before life pulled us in different directions.
"Hey, Celeste. How did you get my number?"
"Tilda gave it to me. She said you might need some cheering up. Amara and I are meeting for drinks tonight. Want to join us?"
The idea of surrounding myself with old friends sounds perfect.
We meet at a trendy bar downtown. Celeste looks exactly the same – bubbly and energetic. Amara Valente is more reserved but warm. It feels good to be around people who knew me before Cobb.
"So," Celeste says after we order drinks, "Tilda mentioned you're having boy troubles."
I give them the abbreviated version. They listen with appropriate outrage.
"All those years?" Amara shakes her head. "And he's still playing house with his adopted sister?"
"It's so weird," Celeste adds. "Like, I get being close to family, but this sounds..." She trails off.
"Inappropriate?" I finish.
"That's one word for it."
Amara pulls out her phone. "What's the sister's name again? Ivana?"
"Ivana Solomon. Why?"
Amara's fingers fly across her screen. "Just curious. You'd be amazed what people post online."
A few minutes later, she freezes. "Oh my god."
"What?"
Amara turns her phone toward us. It's a video – grainy, like it was taken from far away. But I recognize Ivana immediately. She's standing outside what looks like a hotel, arguing with a man I don't recognize. Their body language is aggressive, intimate in a way that suggests familiarity.
"When was this taken?" I ask.
Amara checks the timestamp. "A few days ago. The same day Cobb claimed she had a breakdown because of you."
My heart pounds as I watch the video again. Ivana doesn't look fragile or suicidal. She looks angry. The man grabs her arm at one point, and she yanks away from him violently.
"Who posted this?"
"Some gossip account. It's already got thousands of views. The caption says something about a public meltdown, but this doesn't look like a breakdown to me."
"It looks like a lovers' quarrel," Celeste observes.
I stare at the phone screen. All this time, I blamed myself for Ivana's supposed distress. But she was fighting with some mystery man, not suffering because of my relationship with Cobb.
"Can you send me this?"
"Already did."
I finish my drink and excuse myself early. My head is spinning with new possibilities. Who was that man? And why did Ivana let Cobb believe I was responsible for her problems?
Back at Tilda's apartment, I lie awake thinking. Everything about that night makes more sense now. Ivana's theatrical concern, her perfectly timed arrival with Cobb's belongings, her casual mention of the bracelet.
She orchestrated the whole thing. She wanted me to see that bracelet. She wanted me to know Cobb gave her one too.
But why?
My phone rings at midnight. Cobb's name flashes on the screen. Against my better judgment, I answer.
"Dahlia, thank god. I've been trying to call you for days."
"What do you want, Cobb?"
"I want to fix this. I want to make things right between us."
"There's nothing to fix. We're done."
"No, we're not. Look, I know I screwed up with the marriage license thing. And maybe I haven't been the best fiancé lately."
Maybe.
"But I love you, Dahlia. And I think... I think maybe it's time we got married."
I sit up in bed. "What?"
"Let's do it. Let's get married. Right away."
The sudden proposal feels like a slap. After everything that's happened, he thinks he can just decide we should get married?
"Why now?"
"Because I realized how much you mean to me. Because I don't want to lose you."
"You already lost me."
"Come on, Dahlia. Don't be like this. I'm trying to make an effort here."
An effort. Like proposing to your girlfriend of all these years is some generous favor he's doing me.
"Let me think about it," I hear myself say.
"Really?"
"Give me a few days."
After I hang up, I realize I'm not thinking about it at all. I'm thinking about that video. About Ivana's lies. About all these years of putting Cobb first while he put me last.
I'm thinking about the house.
Our house. The one I've been paying the mortgage on for years while saving for our wedding. The house I picked out, decorated, turned into a home for us.
The house that's only in my name.
The next morning, I call a real estate agent.
The following day, I call Cobb back.
"I've made my decision."
"And?"
"No."
The silence stretches long enough that I wonder if he hung up.
"No to what?"
"No to marriage. No to trying again. No to all of it."
"Dahlia, you're being emotional. Let's meet and talk about this like adults."
"I am being an adult. That's why I'm ending this."
"You can't just—"
"I can. And I am."
I hang up before he can respond.
Hours later, I'm standing in the driveway of the house I thought would be our forever home. The 'SOLD' sign went up this morning. The buyers want a quick closing.
My real estate agent, a brisk woman named Jennifer, approaches with a clipboard.
"All the paperwork is ready. You just need to sign here and here."
I sign my name with steady hands.
"The movers will be here Monday to get your things?"
"There's nothing I want to keep."
Jennifer looks surprised but doesn't comment. She hands me an envelope.
"Your check. And here are the spare keys."
I take the keys – small pieces of metal that represent all these years of my life. All these years of believing in a future that was never going to happen.
I drop them into Jennifer's palm.
"Congratulations on the sale," she says.
I look back at the house one last time. The blue shutters I picked out. The rose bushes I planted. The porch swing where Cobb and I used to sit on summer evenings.
None of it was ever really ours anyway. It was always just mine, waiting for him to care enough to make it his too.
Now it's someone else's dream home.
And I'm finally free.