I stayed for one more year with him. By then, his presence in the penthouse had become a series of visits. A night here. A weekend there. Long stretches of silence in between.
It was one such night when he came to the penthouse. We had an amazing time—or maybe only I did. I made us dinner. He seemed more present with me than before. I was so happy thinking things were finally looking good—maybe he realized his mistakes. We went to bed together.
But when I woke in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, his side of the bed was empty.
I looked everywhere. The bathroom. The living room. The kitchen. The balcony. Nothing.
Panicked. Called many times. Each ring stretched into the next, and each time, his voice—recorded, unbotheringly patient — Hi, you've reached Rhys Parker. I am busy at the moment. So please leave a voice message after the beep.
When the phone was finally answered, my heart leapt—but it wasn't his voice.
"Hey, Rosie, it's Angela."
Angela Bodine. Up-and-coming writer. Her first book a hit.
"What—why do you have his phone?"
"We're at my beach house celebrating my book launch. So sad you couldn't make it."
Couldn't make it? The words hung in the air, absurd and infuriating. I didn't even know.
"Can you pass the phone to Rhys?" My voice came out steadier than I felt.
A long silence. There wasn't even an acknowledgement from the other side. Then his voice, dripping calm amusement: "Hey."
The casualness of it—as if he hadn't vanished into the night like a ghost, as if I hadn't been calling into the void for hours—sent something hot crawling up my throat.
"You snuck out?" My voice cracked. "Do you know how scared I was? Why was your phone off? Why is she answering your phone?"
A pause. Then a laughter—not the easy one I used to love, but something thinner. Hedging. His dismissive laughter.
"Relax. You're on speaker. We were playing a game—seeing whose partner would freak out and call first. You win. Fifty-five calls. Everyone cheered."
Everyone cheered. As if I craved for validation from others...maybe I did but definitely not at that moment.
I could hear them in the background. Laughter. Glasses clinking. Angela's voice: "Told you she'd call! Now you owe me money."
"Is that why you came here tonight? To leave in the middle of the night to see if I call you? Was this a game to you?" I was furious.
There was no response from the other side, only laughter and clinking of glasses.
I hung up.
My hands were shaking. My eyes burned. But I didn't cry. Because I was beaming with anger.
Then my phone buzzed.
A social media notification. From his account.
The photo was a cruel proof of something I was eagerly trying to avoid: his arm first, slung around Angela's shoulders. Then his face, laughing, drink raised high. Then the caption—"Beach house celebrations. Couldn't have asked for a better night."
Something inside me didn't just crack. It shattered.
I don't remember throwing the phone. I only remember the sound—glass and plastic and TV screen splintering, the sharp crack of both dying together. The silence that followed was somehow louder than the crash.
I stood there, breath coming in ragged gasps, staring at the ruin I'd made. The ruined TV. The ruined phone.
The week that followed was chaos.
Fights that started in whispers and ended in screams. Accusations I hurled like weapons. Accusations he deflected with a shrug, a smirk, a "you're being dramatic."
"You humiliated me."
"You humiliated yourself."
"I called you fifty-five times because I thought you were dead."
"Right now I wish I were." His words couldn't be colder than this. "God Rosie! Stop acting like my wife for once. You are forgetting that I also have a life of my own."
"Rhys, what about my life? I left everything for you...to be with you. I thought this is what you wanted? Us? Together?" I pointed to myself and him.
"Who asked you to? You left everything because you didn't have anything to begin with. You were pathetic without me."
"Rhys, please choose your words carefully. You know I have high blood pressure."
He continued, his voice rising. "Have you ever once thought about me? You made all the decisions on your own. You have no idea how hard it is to run a publishing business." The veins in his throat pulsed, "you should know—I took on all your losses. I spent my money on you. Made you into this famous writer. And now you're shouting at me?" He stepped closer. "Do you have any gratitude? If I were in your place, I'd kiss the hand of the person who fed me when I couldn't afford meals."
Something inside me snapped back.
"Hang on." My voice was shaking. "My first novel didn't do well, yes. But my other books made you a ton of money. You grew your business from that hole you called an office into a whole building. If anything, you should be kissing my hand."
He laughed—that thin, dismissive sound I was beginning to hate. "You're forgetting the part where I made you the star. If I wasn't there, you'd have starved to death by now. Go ahead. I dare you. You won't be able to write one page without me."
I wanted to fight back. I wanted to scream. But something in me was crumbling. The walls of the penthouse felt like they were closing in, and he was looking at me like I was nothing, and I couldn't—I just couldn't—
"Rhys." My voice cracked. "Why are you being like this?" Tears were streaming down my face now, and I hated myself for it. "Let's forget this. Let's start over. I'm sorry, okay? I just want to be with you."
He stared at me for a long moment. His face was unreadable.
"What makes you think I want to be with you?"
The words didn't make sense. They couldn't.
"For love?" I heard myself say.
He let out a laugh—familiar, easy, the same laugh I heard when he was with Angela. "Love?"
He took a step back. Shrugged. Like what he was about to say was nothing.
"My colleagues bet I wouldn't be able to sleep with you." A pause. "Boy, were you a difficult one. Took me four years to get into your pants."
The floor shifted beneath me.
I blinked. Once. Twice. The room kept spinning.
"What?"
"…....."
I don't remember what he said much after that.
I don't remember the rest of the fight either or him leaving. I only remember standing in the middle of the apartment, hours later, still in the same spot.
****
Somehow, in the days that followed, I convinced myself I'd misheard. That my high blood pressure made me hallucinate. That he hadn't meant it. That people say terrible things in fights. I told myself I could fix it. I always fix it.
So I planned a trip. To Bali. A peace offering. A reminder of who we were before I became someone he wanted to escape.
I told myself: If I can just remind him of us, we can start over.
I decided to surprise him at his office.
Something I never did after we started dating. He'd asked me not to, early on. "You're my writer, not my secretary. I don't want you seeing the ugly side of business."
I'd believed him then. I believed everything then.