I glanced at the screen. Unknown number.
My thumb hovered. Unknown numbers had brought me nothing but grief lately – Caelum’s initial intrusion into my life had started with a stranger, and I’d developed a Pavlovian suspicion of anyone who hadn’t earned a spot in my contacts. But curiosity – that stubborn, self-destructive trait that had gotten me into trouble since childhood – won.
I swiped.
*Marlowe, it’s me, Sterling. We need to talk.*
I stared at the message. Then at my foaming mouth in the mirror. Then back at the message. A laugh – short, hard, entirely devoid of humor – escaped me, sending a small spray of toothpaste against the glass.
Of course. Of course he was texting me. Of course the universe had decided that a nightmare about Sterling wasn’t sufficient, and had arranged for the real one to make an appearance within minutes of waking. Some people have guardian angels. I apparently have a cosmic comedian with a grudge.
I spat into the sink and typed back: *Not interested.*
Two words. Clean. Complete. I hit send with the satisfying finality of a door slamming shut.
Thirty seconds later: another chime.
*Listen to me, Marlowe. I said I want to speak to you right now.*
I read it twice. The tone – commanding, possessive, the digital equivalent of a man grabbing your arm in public – sent something hot climbing up my spine. Not fear. Not anymore. Something closer to the feeling you get when you see a spider you used to be afraid of and realize it’s smaller than you remembered.
*Well, come and force me, jerk.* Send.
The bubbles appeared immediately. He was typing fast. Angry-fast. The kind of fast that means the autocorrect is working overtime and losing.
*Oh, I see. Now I understand. You used me for my wealth and dumped me after you got what you wanted.*
I laughed again, and this time it was real – a full, bewildered, toothpaste-flecked laugh at the sheer, breathtaking audacity of a man rewriting history in real time. Sterling, who had issued an ultimatum. Sterling, who had told me Priya was his new conquest. Sterling, who had ended the call with the words “we’re done” still ringing in the air. That Sterling was now accusing me of doing the dumping.
I rinsed my mouth, wiped my lips, and composed my response with the methodical calm of a woman drafting a legal document:
*Funny how you’ve forgotten what really happened. I called you in tears, and you gave me an ultimatum. I couldn’t meet it, so you ended things. You dumped me, Sterling. And honestly? It was the best thing you ever did for me. Because it made me realize I’d been wasting my time on someone who confused love with obedience. I’ve moved on. I’m happy. And one more thing – don’t you EVER lie about Priya again. She’s a better person than you’ll ever understand.*
Send.
The response came in seconds: *What do you mean by someone better than me?*
I looked at the message. Looked at it the way you’d look at a fly buzzing against a window – persistent, irritating, fundamentally unable to comprehend the glass between its desire and reality.
I locked the phone. Set it on the counter. And stepped into the shower.
The hot water hit my shoulders and I closed my eyes and let it work. Let it wash away dream-Sterling and text-Sterling and every version of Sterling that had ever made me feel smaller than I was. Under the steam, I thought about Caelum. His smile. The way he’d looked at me across the restaurant table last night – not possessively, not hungrily, but with something quieter and more dangerous: attention. The genuine kind. The kind that says: I’m not just looking at you, I’m learning you.
I turned off the water. Toweled off. Wrapped myself in the fluffy white robe that hung on the bathroom door like a cloud someone had domesticated. My phone was still face-down on the counter, still buzzing with the persistence of a man who couldn’t accept irrelevance. I left it there.
I walked into the bedroom, and something on the bed stopped me.
Flowers. A bouquet – not the intimidating, architectural kind that wealthy people send to make a point, but real flowers, garden-beautiful, soft-petaled, the kind someone chooses because they thought about what you’d actually like. Roses. Deep red, just opening, their scent filling the room with something sweet and alive.
Beside them, a note. I picked it up. Caelum’s handwriting – surprisingly messy for a man so controlled, the letters leaning slightly left like they were in a hurry:
*Good morning, sunshine. Off to work. See you when I’m back. Have a great day. Love you, Caelum.*
I read it twice. Three times. Pressed the paper against my chest like a teenager, because that’s apparently who I was now – a girl who holds love notes to her heart and feels warmth spreading through her body like ink through water.
“My husband,” I whispered, “is disgustingly sweet.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.