Chapter 3
“I’m so sorry, Rory.”
Mallory Marlowe doesn’t sound sorry. She sounds smug.
“How dare he?!” she continues, the words peppered with feigned outrage. “How dare she?! What a slut.”
The insult is carefully chosen. Because Rory Kensington—perfect, poised, unaffected Rory Kensington—would object to a demeaning slur being used to describe anyone, even if anyone is on her knees in front of my pants-less boyfriend.
I’m so tired of acting perfect and poised and unaffected. It’s exhausting. Stifling.
What would Mallory do if I agreed? If I flung her phone across the room? If I broke the ceramic bowl, filled with lumpy oatmeal I made just before she knocked on my front door to show me a video I wish I could scrub from my brain?
I don’t know because I stay silent, the quiet kitchen amplifying the loud groan before Carson encourages the woman blowing him with words I had no clue were part of his vocabulary.
Our relationship wasn’t perfect. We never acted how Wren and Sawyer did at dinner with my parents on Saturday night. Or how my parents interact for that matter.
Not everyone finds that, I assured myself.
Eight billion people on this planet means the odds of meeting the one person who’s meant to be your other half are minuscule. My soulmate, if I theoretically have one, could live in Kyoto. Could have died in a freak accident as a child. Could have married someone else last week.
Carson checked all the boxes—responsible, respectful, steady job, supportive family—so I committed. Carson encouraged law school; he didn’t ask why a billionaire would bother working. He told me he wanted to get married, that kids were part of his future plan. More checks.
I accepted we would never be a cheesy couple that finished each other’s sentences. That I would never feel giddy when he walked into a room or when he texted me.
More shocking than the video playing on Mallory’s phone—the video that’s apparently plastered all over the internet?
Carson didn’t accept what was missing. He looked elsewhere for what was absent from our stable, predictable relationship—a betrayal I’d never considered him capable of.
It’s a terrifying form of vertigo—something I thought was solid and substantial suddenly turning transparent.
There’s a pause, as the video ends abruptly, and then it starts on a loop again.
I shut off Mallory’s phone and shove it across the quartz countertop. My kitchen is spotless, same as the rest of my brand-new apartment. I wanted everything to be perfect for my first day of work, and I hate coming home to a mess.
Mallory tucks her phone away with a sympathetic tut, studying me closely. “You must be devastated.”
Am I? I don’t feel devastated. I’m humiliated—spectacularly unfair since I’m not the one with a sex tape circulating.
Mostly, I’m disappointed. Defeated. I thought I was on the precipice of getting everything I’d ever wanted.
I have the degree and the dream job. All I still need to do is pass the bar exam to become a fully licensed attorney.
Carson was supposed to propose later this summer since I’d told him I didn’t want to get engaged until after law school.
“Thank you for letting me know,” I state.
It’s the wrong thing to say, but I don’t know what the right words are.
I’m not grateful to Mallory for coming here to broadcast my boyfriend’s infidelity.
But it’s not her fault either. Not her fault Carson cheated and not her fault someone uploaded a video of it happening.
It’s not the brunette’s fault either. Whether or not she knew Carson was in a relationship, the blame lies solely on one person—the man I expected to spend the rest of my life with.
The sheer size of the betrayal is stunning, suffocating, a weight that feels impossible to escape.
“Of course,” Mallory coos. “I know you aren’t on social media; I would never want you to be blindsided. More blindsided, I mean. What-what are you going to do?”
Serious effort went into her being the one to break this news. We know enough of the same people that it wouldn’t have been that difficult for her to find out the address of my new apartment. But I chose it because it’s close to my office, not the Upper East Side, where Mallory lives.
She came all this way for the exclusive scoop of my reaction. I’m determined for it to be a disappointing one. If I break anything, I’ll be the one who has to fix it.
I force a smile. “It’s over.”
Oddly, those two words lift a little weight. I can’t forgive Carson. We won’t move past this. There’s an immediate closure inherent in that.
Mallory nods, sympathy bleeding across her face. “Carson is such a fool. I mean, you’re a Kensington.”
A Kensington. That’s my sole appeal to most people—a member of a family they’re intrigued by. Nothing about me is remarkable. Just my last name and the status it signifies.
The Albrights are well-off because of generational wealth repeatedly inherited.
Carson’s approximate net worth equals the interest my trust fund earns daily.
The asset everyone is aware I have—money—wasn’t wealth Carson had himself.
Even that incentive wasn’t enough to keep his pants zipped.
A fresh wave of humiliation washes over me.
“I have to get to work, Mallory.”
She nods. “Good for you. I’d be staying home and adding some alcohol to that.” She gestures to my untouched coffee. “If you need anything, you can always call.”
I muster a smile. “Thanks.”
Maybe Mallory means it. But it feels like a reference to my few friends. I’m better with books than people. Skilled at small talk, yet terrible with vulnerability or intimacy. An iceberg—pristine and remote.
Which everyone is about to find out.
If they haven’t realized it already.
My sister calls while I’m walking to the subway.
I’m very tempted not to answer. I’m still processing this morning’s unexpected events.
Attempting to recover some of the excitement I woke up with.
This is a day I’ve looked forward to for years.
Decades. Carson might have ruined our relationship, but I possess the power to keep him separate from my career.
Concern wins out. Wren hardly ever picks up her phone. Her being the one to place calls is almost as rare. Maybe another catastrophe has already struck. Isn’t there a saying about bad news coming in clusters?
I answer. “Hello?”
“Rory! Thank God you picked up. I figured you’d already be at work since showing up early on the first day is your usual thing.”
I roll my eyes even though Wren can’t see me. Truthfully, I would have been early if Mallory hadn’t stopped by. I should still arrive well before nine, but I was aiming for eight thirty. If I miss a train, I’ll be late. I quicken my pace, just in case that happens.
“I’m on my way to work,” I say. “And about to head into the subway, where I’ll probably lose any signal, so … what’s going on?”
“Why are you taking the subway?” Wren asks, sounding aghast. “Isn’t it a million degrees down there? And smelly?”
Yes, and yes.
“It’s much faster than driving. My new apartment is right by the line that—”
“Whatever, whatever,” Wren interrupts. “I called to tell you … well, uh, the thing is …” Her voice trails a second time, all the urgency seeping from her tone, conveying hesitation that is very uncharacteristic for my bold sister.
She knows about Carson, I realize.
I figured, if Mallory had time to track me down, that the video was somewhat widespread.
I knew people would gossip. Sex and cheating are always juicy topics.
But I wasn’t expecting Wren, who’s currently in the Hamptons, to have already heard.
I thought I’d have a day to process. To practice saying I’m fine to my family before they found out.
“I saw the video, Wren.”
She swears. “Someone sent it to you?”
“Mallory Marlowe stopped by this morning. She showed it to me.”
“Ugh. I never liked her.”
Wren never liked Carson either, but she’s considerate enough to not pile a told you so on top of my already-shitty morning.
“I can’t talk about this right now, okay?”
“Okay. But you’ll call me, if you want to talk? During your lunch break or something? Technically, that’s during my shift, but my manager reports to the marina manager, and that’s Sawyer. No way will he fire me.”
A muffled male voice speaks in the background. Wren laughs in response, and I smile for the first time all day.
Resolve hardens around my bruised … pride. I won’t settle for potential again. I’ll find someone who makes me as happy as my sister sounds, or I’ll remain single forever. Maybe I should get a pet. I’ve always wanted a cat.
“I’ll talk to you later, Wren.”
“All right.” Her tone is serious. “I’m so sorry, Rory. He will regret this for the rest of his miserable life.”
My throat thickens. “Thanks. Bye, Wren.”
I hang up quickly before she can say anything else, then hurry down the subway steps.
He’s waiting when I enter the lobby of my apartment building.
I thank Gavin, the doorman, for holding the door open, then continue toward the elevators.
Carson, seated on the bench across from the lobby desk, stands and hurries after me. I jab the Up button, staring resolutely ahead as his steps grow louder.
“Rory, I …” That’s all he says. Two measly words, one of them my name. He clears his throat, then tries again. “You’ve seen …”
Another pause.
I remain silent.
I’m done. Drained, my brain a scramble of new colleagues’ names and facts from the cases I spent the day reviewing. Defendants with real, pressing problems, who are facing prejudice and prison.
There’s nothing Carson can say or do to fix this. I suspect he already knows so, and that’s at least part of why he’s only summoned four words total.
I thought he’d put some effort into an apology though. Even that was too much to ask, it appears.
“How many times?” I ask.
No work is necessary to keep my tone calm and cool. It just comes out that way.
“What?”
The elevator arrives, dinging as the doors open. Carson moves to enter it, so I stay still. No way are we continuing this conversation in my apartment.
“How many times did you cheat?”
A question Carson should have been expecting. But he blanches like it’s unexpected.
“I—it was a mistake, Rory. I don’t want to hurt you with the details.”
I glance at him. Smile. “How thoughtful.”
He flinches at the heavy sarcasm, then flushes. There’s a bruise on his left cheekbone, the red and purple making part of his complexion resemble a plum.
I stare at Carson, searching for some remnant of the person I knew. The bruise isn’t all that’s foreign on his face. For some reason, it suddenly feels like I’ve never seen him before. Like he’s a caricature of former familiarity, everything appealing spoiled by betrayal.
“Bye, Carson.” I step into the elevator.
He starts to follow.
I hold a hand out, halting him in place. “You don’t live here.”
He could have. I suggested we move in together when I found this apartment.
Carson said he would relocate after his current lease ended.
Was that truly him being fiscally responsible?
How many times did I accidentally excuse his cheating?
When I canceled visits because of an exam or a paper, was he relieved?
Secretly acting single while I was clueless in another city?
He never answered my question. And the answer doesn’t really matter. I know it happened once, and I think the truth is, it happened many times. The exact number is irrelevant, but the implications burn.
Carson isn’t coming any closer, but he’s blocking the doors. They try to close, then stall, beeping in response to the obstacle preventing them from shutting.
I wait.
He stares. Scoffs. “That’s it?”
“I don’t have anything else to say to you.”
Another scoff. “You’re not going to ask why I did it?”
“Nope.” I pop the P, just to be extra obnoxious, like Flynn does.
Carson’s eyes narrow. “I really was just a prop, huh? I’m of no use to you anymore, so you’re tossing me away? People aren’t accessories you can shove aside every time an internship asks you to stay late or a professor offers extra credit, Rory.”
“Yes, me prioritizing a degree over your disloyal dick was obviously the wrong decision,” I drawl.
He startles, then scowls. “You always have to be right about everything, don’t you?
So fucking superior. Yeah, I cheated. You were never here, and when you were around, there was always an event with your family or a law review article due.
I got sick of sex in the same position for a few minutes.
Anyone normal would. It’s like we were fucking married after a few weeks of dating.
Other girls wear lingerie. Other girls like sucking my dick.
No guy is going to stick around for a boring bitch who hardly ever puts out, no matter how much money she has. ”
I’m frozen. Numb to the poison being spewed my way. I’m listening to a stranger, too, it seems like. Or maybe that’s just self-defense. Maybe he was always this bitter, this pathetic, and I was too distracted to notice those warning signs before they blared bright red.
I want to slap him, right over the ugly bruise. I want to injure Carson, similar to how his words just hurt me. But mostly, I want him gone. Want this done. So, I stand and stare and wait for it to be over.
Carson shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Typical. Too fucking polite to fight.”
He steps back, clear of the doors, and they slide shut a few seconds later. My stomach swoops as the elevator begins to rise.
And then the first tear falls.