I couldn't stay in Maya's house for another second. The very air had turned toxic, thick with the phantom scent of cheap perfume and the chilling echo of his betrayal. My eyes were traitors, constantly darting back to that beautiful linen sofa—the one we'd saved for months to buy, the centerpiece of so many movie nights and heart-to-hearts. Now, it was a crime scene. Every time I blinked, I saw them there, a grotesque tableau seared onto my eyelids. A fresh, acrid wave of nausea would rise in my throat, so potent I had to swallow hard against it. The whole place, once a sanctuary, now felt profoundly violated, and I was an accomplice just for having witnessed its desecration.
I fumbled with the lock, my hands trembling with a jittery mix of rage and revulsion, and finally escaped into the cool, indifferent embrace of the night. The Uber arrived, a silent, hybrid spaceship gliding to the curb. I slid into the back seat, pressing my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the city lights smear into golden streaks. I didn't see the bustling streets or the glowing storefronts; I only saw the insolent smirk on that pink-haired girl's face, the panicked guilt in Killian's eyes.
A profound sense of uncleanliness clung to me. It felt as if the moral filth of his actions was a tangible film on my skin, seeping into my pores just by my proximity to it. The moment I stumbled through the door of my own apartment, I was already pulling my shirt over my head. I beelined for the bathroom, not even bothering to turn on the main light, guided by the soft, automatic glow of the motion-sensor nightlight.
I stepped into the shower and turned the knob all the way to the left, under a scalding spray that made my skin flush an angry, blotchy red. I reached for my most expensive shower gel, a decadent French formula scented with Bulgarian rose and lychee, and scrubbed my arms and shoulders with a loofah until the delicate skin stung. I needed to scrub the memory away, to wash the visual of his hands on another woman out of my mind. I stood there until the hot water ran out and the spray turned icy, shocking my system into a state of numb, shivering clarity.
Finally, wrapped in the soft, familiar comfort of my favorite pajamas—a delicate ivory satin set with tiny pearl buttons—I felt a sliver of my sanity return. The floral scent of my fabric softener was a small, comforting rebellion against the emotional stench I'd brought home.
But calm was a fleeting visitor. It was quickly evicted by a frantic, pacing anxiety that had me wearing a path on the plush, blush-pink wool of my bedroom rug. My mind was a racetrack of catastrophic scenarios. How do I break this to Maya? The question was a relentless loop.
I'd always wanted her to break free from Killian's gravitational pull, but I'd imagined it with a triumphant, "I'm leaving you" speech from her, followed by pints of Ben & Jerry's and a playlist of empowering anthems. Not like this. Not with this nuclear, soul-crushing imagery that I was now cursed to carry. She'd been so genuinely, radiantly happy lately, finally believing in his grand promises of change. This wouldn't just break her heart; it would shatter the very foundation of her reality, making her question every happy moment of the last few years. I was the bearer of the worst news imaginable, the keeper of a truth that would devastate her, and the weight of it was an anvil on my chest, crushing the air from my lungs.
Just as I was spiraling into a full-blown panic, my doorbell chimed, a cheerful sound that felt obscenely out of place. My heart plummeted straight through the floor. Of course, it was her. I'd called her earlier, my voice probably strained and tight, and she, with her best-friend telepathy, had sensed the disturbance in my force.
I opened the door to find her looking utterly drained, still in her elegant work blazer and tailored trousers, her makeup slightly smudged. Her usually vibrant eyes, the color of rich dark chocolate, were shadowed with a deep, soul-weary fatigue. She didn't even say hello, just fell into my arms for a long, silent hug that spoke volumes. I held her tightly, my chin resting on her shoulder, my eyes squeezed shut against the guilt.
"Hannah Banana," she mumbled into my shoulder, her voice thick with exhaustion. "I think I'm gonna stay here tonight."
"Sure, you don't even need to ask," I said, rubbing soothing circles on her back as I guided her inside, kicking the door shut with my foot. "You know this is your house, too."
"Thank you, babe," she sighed, already shuffling toward the kitchen and yanking open the stainless-steel door of my fridge. The bright light illuminated her tired face. "I'm so hungry. But all I really want to do is sleep for a thousand years."
"I'll just order DoorDash," I said, pulling out my phone with a sense of grim purpose. Comfort food was the only weapon we had right now. "What's your poison?"
"A double cheeseburger with extra fries. Onion rings. A chocolate shake. The greasiest, most decadent thing they have," she declared, slumping into a chair at my kitchen table as if her bones had dissolved.
"You know it's almost midnight, right?" I warned, my thumbs already flying across the screen, searching for the most reliable 24-hour diner. "Your stomach is going to stage a full-blown protest in the morning. It's going to be a coup."
"Let it," she said with a weak, fluttering wave of her hand. "After the day I've had, I deserve a little internal rebellion."
We ate in relative silence, the only sounds the crinkle of greasy paper bags and the cartoonish squawk of a late-night infomercial from the television. I picked at my salad, my appetite gone, while Maya devoured her burger with a kind of desperate fervor. We didn't talk about Killian. We didn't talk about work. We just existed in the same heavy, quiet space, two stars orbiting a dark, unspoken secret.
---
The next morning was pure, unadulterated chaos. My alarm had definitely failed—or, more likely, I had slept right through its gentle chimes in a post-burger-and-drama coma. I woke with a jolt, the morning sun blazing through my sheer curtains like a spotlight of judgment. A frantic glance at my phone on the nightstand revealed I was not just late, but dangerously, professionally-late.
What followed was a tornado of frantic activity. I was a whirlwind of inefficiency, brushing my teeth with one hand while simultaneously trying to step into my cream-colored, high-waisted corporate trousers with the other. A dollop of minty toothpaste dripped onto the silk, and I groaned, dabbing at it frantically with a wet cloth.
My phone rang, the shrill tone slicing through the panic. It was John. Of course.
"Hannah," his voice was a tight wire of stress, even through the speaker. "We have an emergency meeting for the entire marketing department in an hour. I'm organizing it, but I need your help pulling the Q4 data reports and the preliminary projections for the 'Zalira Nocturne' follow-up. Can you be here early?"
"I'm on my way, John. I'll get it done," I promised, the words slightly garbled around my toothbrush. I was a portrait of professional competence.
I spat, rinsed, and critically examined the faint water mark on my blouse. It would have to do. I threw on the baby pink silk blouse, its delicate fabric feeling like a lie against my anxious skin. I fastened a simple string of pearls around my neck—armor against the day.
"So, what do you think?" I asked Maya, doing a frantic, half-twirl in the middle of my room. "Does this scream 'I have my life together and am ready to lead a multi-million dollar campaign' or 'I am one misplaced decimal point away from a complete breakdown'?"
Maya, who was buried under my fluffy duvet with only her face peeking out, her dark hair a wild cloud on my pillow, gave a groggy smile. "It makes your ass look fantastic," she croaked, her voice raspy with sleep. "I want it to be mine. Seriously, what's the fabric content? I need that kind of architectural support."
We both burst into the kind of tired, slightly hysterical laughter that only comes from shared exhaustion and unspoken trauma. It was a brittle sound, threatening to crack at any moment.
"I'll take that as a win," I said, scrambling to find my nude patent leather heels. "Listen, there's something really, really important I need to tell you when I get back. But I'm late, and my Uber is literally here."
I was halfway out my bedroom door, my leather work bag slung over my shoulder, when her voice, small and fragile, stopped me in my tracks.
"Hannah?"
I turned back. She was sitting up now, the duvet pooled around her waist, clutching the blanket to her chest like a lifeline. Her eyes were wide and vulnerable, stripped of all their usual fiery confidence.
"Killian didn't call, y'know," she whispered. "I texted him last night… nothing. I called this morning… it went straight to voicemail. I think… I think he might have even blocked me."
The words were a physical blow. My heart shattered into a million razor-sharp pieces for her. The heavy, terrible truth I was carrying suddenly felt a thousand times heavier, a leaden weight of knowledge that threatened to buckle my knees. You have no idea, I thought, the guilt a sour taste in my mouth. You have no idea what he's really capable of.
"He is such a messy manchild," I said, my voice firm but gentle, layering my rage with a carefully constructed calm. "We will definitely talk when I get back. I promise. I've got a crazy day, but you are my priority. Love you, bye!"
I blew her a kiss, a pathetic, inadequate gesture, and closed the front door behind me, leaning against it for a single, fortifying second before practically launching myself into the waiting Uber.
As we pulled away from the curb, the two halves of my life collided with violent force inside my head: the professional emergency at Zalira, with its charts, projections, and ruthless executives, and the personal, emotionally-charged dumpster fire waiting for me at home. I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
It was going to be a very, very long day.