CHAPTER ONE
GUILIETTA
The apartment smelled like vanilla candles and lies.
I fumbled with my keys at the door, arms loaded with grocery bags because I'd wanted to surprise Joshua with his favorite dinner—homemade lasagna, garlic bread, the works.
Eight months together, and I was still doing stupid romantic things like that.
Still believing that waiting—saving myself for marriage like my mother had raised me to do—was something he respected.
Still believing he loved me.
The door swung open with a soft click, and the first thing I noticed was the silence. No television. No music. Just an odd, heavy quiet that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Then I heard it.
A sound that didn't belong.
A rhythmic creaking from down the hall—my hall, my bedroom—accompanied by breathless gasps and a low male groan I knew too well. A groan I'd heard whispered against my neck when we kissed, when his hands wandered and I gently stopped them, when he promised he understood, and that he could wait.
My stomach dropped like I'd been shoved off a cliff.
The grocery bags slipped from my numb fingers. Oranges rolled across the hardwood, scattering toward the kitchen. A jar of marinara sauce hit the floor and cracked, red pooling across the white tile like blood.
I didn't care.
I walked toward my bedroom like I was underwater, like the air had turned to molasses. Each step took a year. Each breath burned in my chest. My heart hammered so hard I thought my ribs would crack.
Turn around. Leave. Don't look. You don't want to see this.
But my hand was already on the doorknob.
I pushed it open.
And there they were.
Joshua—my Joshua, with his sandy hair and easy smile and promises about our future, about how he'd wait as long as I needed because I was worth it—had Maggie bent over my desk.
My best friend since freshman year. My roommate.
The girl who'd held me when I cried over my father's absences, who'd sworn she'd never let anyone hurt me, who I'd trusted with every secret I had.
Her skirt was bunched around her waist. His pants were around his ankles. Her hands were braced against the wood, knocking over the framed photo of the three of us from last summer—Joshua's arm around me, Maggie grinning beside us like we were family.
And neither of them had heard me come in because they were too busy fucking on the furniture I'd picked out, in the apartment I paid for, surrounded by the life I'd built.
"Oh God, Josh, yes—harder, baby, fuck me harder—"
Maggie's voice. Breathless. Shameless. Delighted.
The sound of it snapped something inside me.
"What the fuck?"
They sprang apart like I'd fired a gun.
Maggie shrieked, whipping around with her eyes wide and her lipstick smeared. For one brief, horrible second, she looked genuinely shocked—and then her expression shifted into something smug. Something almost triumphant.
She didn't even bother covering herself. She just stood there, half-naked, staring at me like I was the one who'd walked in on something I wasn't supposed to see.
Joshua's face went white, then red, his mouth opening and closing like a fish drowning on dry land. His hands fumbled for his pants, yanking them up over his hips, his belt jangling as he stumbled forward.
"Jules—baby, wait, this isn't—"
"How long?" My voice came out flat. Cold. I didn't recognize it.
"What?" Joshua's eyes darted between me and Maggie, panic written all over his face.
"How. Long."
Maggie laughed. Actually laughed, a sharp, bitter sound as she tugged her skirt down and crossed her arms over her chest. "Does it matter?"
"Yes," I bit out, my hands shaking so hard I had to clench them into fists. "It fucking matters."
Joshua took a step toward me, his hands raised like he was trying to calm a wild animal. "Jules, please, just listen—"
"How long, Joshua?"
He flinched. Looked away. "This is the first time."
"Bullshit." Maggie's voice was cold now, all the false sweetness gone. She leaned back against my desk—my desk—and tilted her head, her dark eyes glittering with something cruel. "Try three months, babe. Maybe longer. I lost count."
The room tilted.
Three months.
Three months of him kissing me goodnight and telling me he loved me. Three months of him saying he understood, that he respected my choice, that he could wait. Three months of me believing him while he was fucking my best friend behind my back.
"You—" I couldn't even finish the sentence. My throat closed up, my vision blurring with tears I refused to let fall. Not here. Not in front of them.
Joshua lunged forward, reaching for me. "Baby, please, let me explain—"
"Don't touch me!" I jerked back, my voice cracking. "Don't you dare touch me."
"It didn't mean anything!" Joshua's voice rose, desperate now, his hands still outstretched like he thought he could fix this. "I swear, Jules, it was just—she was just—"
"Just what?" I demanded, my voice shaking. "Just convenient? Just available? Just willing to fuck you because I wouldn't?"
His face crumpled. "You don't understand—"
"Then make me understand, Joshua!" I screamed, all the hurt and rage and humiliation boiling over at once. "Make me understand how you looked me in the eyes every single day and told me you loved me while you were screwing my best friend!"
"You wouldn't sleep with me!" he shouted back, his desperation turning to anger. "What the hell was I supposed to do, Guilietta? You keep saying you want to wait, that you're saving yourself, but I have needs—"
"So you fucked her?" I pointed at Maggie, who was watching us with her arms crossed and a faint smirk on her lips. "You fucked my roommate? My best friend?"
"She was willing," Joshua snapped, his jaw tight. "She didn't make me beg. She didn't make me feel like some kind of pervert for wanting to have sex with my own girlfriend."
The words hit me like a slap.
"You're disgusting," I whispered.
"And you're a prude," Maggie said sweetly, pushing off the desk and sauntering toward me like she owned the place. "Honestly, Jules, what did you expect? You can't dangle yourself in front of a guy for eight months and then act surprised when he finds someone who'll actually put out."
I stared at her. At the girl who'd been my best friend. Who'd slept in my apartment, eaten my food, borrowed my clothes, and listened to me talk about how much I loved Joshua.
And I realized I didn't know her at all.
"Get out," I said quietly.
"What?" Maggie blinked, her smirk faltering.
"Get. Out." My voice was steady now, cold and sharp as a blade. "Both of you. Get the fuck out of my apartment."
"Jules, come on—" Joshua started.
"This is my lease!" I shouted, my voice breaking. "My name, my money, my apartment! You don't get to stand here and blame me for your shitty choices! Get out before I call the cops and have you removed!"
Joshua's face twisted. "Baby, please, just let me—"
I grabbed my purse from the hook by the door, my phone from the desk, and turned on my heel.
"Guilietta, wait!"
I didn't wait.
I ran.
Behind me, I heard Joshua cursing, heard the thud of him tripping over his jeans, heard him screaming my name as he chased me down the hallway, still half-dressed, still scrambling.
"Guilietta! Stop! Let me explain!"
I slammed through the apartment door and kept going, my vision blurred with tears, my chest so tight I couldn't breathe.
The stairs blurred beneath my feet. I hit the lobby at a dead run and burst out onto the Cleveland street, not caring about the cold October air or the people staring or the fact that I'd left my groceries and my dignity scattered across the floor.
I just ran.
Away from the image burned into my brain. Away from the sounds I'd never unhear. Away from the two people I'd trusted most in the world, tangled together in the ruins of everything I'd believed.
My phone started ringing before I made it two blocks.
Joshua.
I rejected the call. It rang again immediately. And again. And again.
By the time I reached my mother's house in the suburbs—the house I'd grown up in, the one place that had always felt safe—I had forty-three missed calls and a string of texts that made me want to throw my phone into traffic.
I had called the sheriff and asked if they could remove some people who did not live at my apartment for me because I did not feel safe going there with them there. They assured me it would be done.
Baby please
It didn't mean anything
She came onto me
You won't even sleep with me what was I supposed to do
That last one made me stop on my mother's porch, my hand frozen on the doorknob.
What was he supposed to do?
Like it was my fault. Like saving myself—something I'd been honest about from day one—gave him permission to fuck my best friend.
I deleted every message without reading the rest and walked inside.
"Guilietta?" My mother appeared from the kitchen, her dark hair pulled back, her green eyes—the same rare shade as mine—widening with concern. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"
I opened my mouth to answer and burst into tears instead.
Three days.
Three unbearable, suffocating days of Joshua calling nonstop.
He had stood on the front lawn outside my mother’s quiet suburban house at all hours of the day and night, his fists slamming against the heavy front door until the wood groaned in its frame.
“Guilietta, please! Open the door, baby! Let me explain! It didn’t mean anything, I swear to God it didn’t mean anything! ”
His desperate, furious voice had carried through the glass, echoing down our tree-lined street for every neighbor to hear.
When that didn't work, he moved to the side windows, tapping frantically against the glass, shouting excuses, begging, and then, when the silence stretched too long, turning vicious and accusatory before spiraling right back into pathetic pleas.
My phone had become a weapon. Every few seconds, the screen flared to life with incoming calls, voicemails, and a relentless barrage of texts.
Guili, please, you’re blowing this out of proportion.