Chapter 2: Betrayed in the Spotlight

I braced myself against the wall and went into the kitchen to cook a bowl of instant mac and cheese. Last night, after entertaining the client, our project team had to urgently revise the proposal to meet their requirements. We stayed up all night to finish it. As soon as I got home, Mason started yelling at me. Exhausted, I finished the hot noodles. My blood sugar came up a bit, and I finally had a little strength again.

The cheesy smell of Kraft mac and cheese filled the kitchen, oddly comforting in its simplicity. I stirred the bright orange powder into the steaming noodles, watching it melt into a creamy sauce. I sat at the counter, spoon in hand, and let the warmth settle in my stomach. For a few minutes, I let myself just be—a guy in an empty apartment, eating cheap noodles, trying to remember when things got so complicated. The taste took me back to college nights, microwaving dinner in my dorm, before everything got so tangled.

I had just put the cushions he threw back in place when the doorbell suddenly rang. I opened the door—it was the delivery guy, holding an Apple Watch box. I suddenly remembered: when I told Mason earlier that I bought him an Apple Watch as an anniversary gift, his face was full of disdain, reluctance, and annoyance. He sneered and asked, "So in your eyes, I’m only worth this much?"

The delivery guy wore a red shirt and a tired smile, probably used to awkward scenes like this. He handed over the box, shifting from foot to foot in the hallway outside, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. I signed for the package, the weight of it in my hands feeling heavier than it should. I remembered the hours I’d spent researching which model to get, hoping it’d be the right color, the right size. I’d even had it engraved with his initials.

I don’t get it. Even though this watch isn’t as expensive as a Rolex, it still cost nearly $400. How could he dismiss it as worthless? All my clothes together don’t even add up to that much.

I ran my thumb along the edge of the box, clutching it tightly, and let out a long sigh. I thought about all the times I’d patched my jeans instead of buying new ones, just to save a little extra for gifts like this. I wondered if he’d ever understand what that sacrifice meant, or if it was always going to be about the price tag.

I shook my head helplessly and said to the delivery guy, "Sorry, can you return it for me?"

He nodded, no questions asked, and walked away, his posture slumping a little as he disappeared down the hallway. I closed the door softly, leaning against it for a moment, the click echoing in the silent apartment. The disappointment felt thick and heavy in my chest.

After the delivery guy left, I sat back on the couch and quietly looked around. I’ve lived here for four years. When we first rented it, the place was empty. The two of us filled it with memories, bit by bit. The roses on the balcony were planted by me. Two shirts, tangled together, lay on the sofa. His pickles were still in the fridge. It looked so much like a home. Back then, I really thought we’d have a home. Turns out, it was just a dream.

I let my fingers trail over the arm of the couch, remembering movie nights and lazy Sundays. The scent of laundry detergent and his cologne still lingered on the throw pillow. I stared at the photos on the fridge—us at the Grand Canyon, at his cousin’s wedding, grinning with arms around each other. The TV still sat in the corner, paused on an old rerun of Friends, a show we used to binge together. I wondered when those smiles started to fade.

I dragged my suitcase to a hotel, checked in, and immediately contacted an agent to see some apartments. I quickly settled on one. The monthly rent was over $400 less than before. My company is out in the suburbs, and the nearby apartments are new and cheap. But for Mason’s convenience, we always rented in the city center. Old and expensive—two bedrooms and a living room cost $1,800 a month. And I was always the one paying the rent. Now, with $400 more each month, I decided to treat myself to an extra piece of Popeyes fried chicken with my boxed dinner tonight.

The hotel room was small, but it felt like a breath of fresh air. The hum of the air conditioner mixed with the faint smell of takeout—greasy chicken and biscuits—making it feel oddly cozy. I sprawled out on the unfamiliar bed, greasy takeout box balanced on my knees, and for the first time in a long while, I ate without worrying about anyone else’s opinion. I scrolled through apartment listings, picturing what it would be like to decorate a place just for me. Maybe I’d finally get that neon sign I always wanted, or hang up my own art.

While eating takeout, I scrolled through Instagram. Suddenly, I saw a post from Mason’s alternate account.

I almost dropped my chicken. My heart started racing, fingers suddenly slippery with grease. The username was one I recognized—his vent account, the one he used when he wanted to air dirty laundry without using his real name. My heart sank as I read the post, the words blurring together for a moment before they came into focus.

"My boyfriend missed our anniversary. Is he cheating on me?"

The accusation hung there, bold and public. I felt my face flush, a mix of anger and embarrassment. I scrolled down, bracing myself for what came next. The post already had over a hundred likes and a growing comment thread.

In the post, Mason listed my so-called suspicious behaviors: I didn’t try to make up after our argument like I usually did. I gave him a cheap gift. I moved out right after the fight. Most importantly, on the anniversary, I took a man to a hotel, and the man even complimented me in the car. In short, he suspected I was cheating.

He made it sound like I was some kind of serial cheater, painting me as the villain for all his followers to see. I felt exposed, like someone had ripped the band-aid off a wound I hadn’t even realized was still bleeding. The comments came in fast and furious, each one piling on. Someone wrote, "Dump him, girl. If he’s not treating you right, you can do better."

The post was already popular. The comments all sided with him, cursing me, saying I must have cheated and didn’t love him, telling him to break up quickly. I lost my appetite, feeling as if a fishbone was stuck in my throat. I pushed my food away, rubbing my chest to ease the tightness.

I stared at the screen, scrolling through the replies, each one harsher than the last. My hands shook with a mix of rage and helplessness. I wanted to defend myself, to tell my side, but I knew it would only make things worse. I put my food aside, appetite gone, my chest tight with anxiety.

Mason is a strange person. For a lot of things, he’d rather talk to friends, coworkers, or post on Instagram than talk to me directly. He suspected I was cheating, but wouldn’t confront me face to face—he had to ask the internet. He loves making me guess, trying to figure him out. On his birthday, when I asked what gift he wanted, he wouldn’t say, just told me to decide. I noticed his computer was old, so I thought of buying him a new one. But then he said the specs weren’t good enough, or the look wasn’t right. He never said he actually wanted a Tissot watch. Sometimes, when I really couldn’t guess, I’d just apologize. But even that wasn’t enough. He had to keep pressing me until I admitted exactly what I did wrong. With him, he’s always right, and I’m always wrong. But if I really was someone who couldn’t do anything right and was always making mistakes, why would he be with me?

I remembered the countless times I’d stood in front of the electronics section at Best Buy, second-guessing every choice, trying to read his mind. I’d lost count of how many nights I’d lain awake, replaying arguments, searching for the exact moment I’d gone wrong. Sometimes I wondered if he even knew what he wanted, or if he just liked watching me twist myself into knots.

I didn’t want to keep reading, and was about to put down my phone. The blue glow of the screen seemed to pulse in the dark, the silence of the hotel room pressing in on me. Suddenly, I saw someone ask: "How did you know he took a man to a hotel on the anniversary?"

My thumb hovered over the screen. I felt my heart pounding, a chill creeping up my spine as I waited for his reply.

Mason replied: "I checked his dashcam and heard them talking in the car. That guy said he could tell his orientation at a glance, and said he admired him."

My blood ran cold. I hadn’t even thought about the dashcam, hadn’t realized he’d check it. The idea that he’d listen in on my private conversations without telling me made my skin crawl. I remembered the car ride—just a coworker, just a ride home. Nothing more. The memory flashed in my mind—the hum of the engine, the smell of stale coffee, my coworker’s casual compliment.