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“Hello, everyone. My name is Bette Miller and it’s a pleasure to be here.” She doesn’t mention me, and Eva and Rinaldi look to me. I smile and nod, and everyone’s attention returns to her. She reveals the artwork. It’s not mine. This pitch isn’t ours. I slide the one I’ve been working on back into my portfolio. I don’t know what the fuck is happening.

She keeps talking and they’re eating it up. She’s dazzling in the room. She’s dazzling in any room, but I don’t understand what happened. She’s killing it but I’m not part of it. I sit back in my chair and stare at her. She’s avoiding eye contact.

She’s lost to me in this moment. She played me. I’m sick to my stomach. I haven’t trusted anyone since her, and now I can’t trust her. She’s stabbing me in the back right in front of me. The balls on whoever this person is are so much bigger than mine.

I can’t catch my breath. I feel my cheeks and they’re burning. I can’t be here for this. Fuck Bette Miller. Somehow, over four days, and specifically the last twenty-four hours, Bette eliminated all traces of my Lizzie. Or a future for us. I take an envelope out of my jacket pocket and slide it into the portfolio. I stand and everyone looks at me.

“I’ve had an emergency come up, but you’re all in the best hands possible. Proceed, Bette.”

I barely get the words out before I’m rushing to our office. I know what’s going to happen. I resigned this morning to make way for her. I don’t lose, but I didn’t want to know who they picked. I didn’t think our relationship could survive, so I bowed out before either of us could get hurt. I slide the portfolio onto the sideboard in what is now her office and sit behind the desk.

My plan was to wait and talk to her, but I’m not sure I can handle hearing her. I’m numb and seeing red because she’s hurt me in a whole new way. I reach in my pocket and shove my keys into the top drawer of the desk. I won’t need them again.

I’m going ahead with my plans and leaving this shit behind. Jesus. This hurts more than before because I’m a spectacular fool. She played the player and I never saw it coming.

I pick up a pen but have no idea what to say. I’m staring at the door, waiting for this wave of fury and nausea to subside. I’m so fucking pissed at myself. And beyond furious at her. What the fuck?

HAYDEN: I’m still going, but she played me. She had a different pitch I wasn’t a part of. Watch your back, brother—it had to be your girl’s art.

DAX: What did you say to me?

HAYDEN: She won at any cost. I’ll call you when I get somewhere.

DAX: Sophie did the art?

HAYDEN: Not sure. I think so. Did you see her working? Because it sure as shit wasn’t mine. Way to go out with a whimper and not a bang.

DAX: Sophie bugged out. She went to Chicago before I even got back last night. This fucking sucks, man. Who the hell is this?

HAYDEN: When you find out, don’t tell me. I need to walk the fuck away from all of this. After this fucking meeting, I’m coming back to Boston then I’m gone. Can you fix the thing with Sophie?

DAX: The thing? She’s THE thing. But now I don’t know. Did I get played too? Shit, were we conned hard by some Windy City wenches?

HAYDEN: It appears so. Well, I don’t know your girl at all. Turns out I didn’t know mine either. Consider this fucking closure.

DAX: I’m flying to Chicago.

HAYDEN: If you think so. Watch your heart. Call me in the morning.

DAX: K.

I shove my phone in my pocket. I unzip the portfolio and roll up my recent non-work drawings. I sling my bag over my shoulder and the door flies open.

Her face is beaming and beautiful. This might be the most painful moment of my life. Not my dad or finding out I’ll never play ball again. More painful than the phone call from her father a decade ago telling me she doesn’t love me. This will be the moment I change and morph into someone else.

She throws her hands up in the air, then they settle on her hips. “Enjoying my office, are you?”

And it’s all over except me getting the hell out of here.

I go numb looking at her hair falling across her face. Her smile is pure, but I don’t know a damn thing about this woman.

“Congratulations. You deserve it. Especially with all that hard work behind my back.”

She turns cold. “Look who’s talking.” She’s itching for a fight, for some reason. I’m not feeling up to giving her one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have to go.”

She’s blocking the door and I don’t want to touch her. I can’t handle it.