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Dante didn't come home that night. I didn't call to ask where he was.

I'd already seen the updates on Isobel's Instagram.

After the clinic that afternoon, they'd gone straight to her parents' place to break the news.

In one of the photos, Isobel's grandmother was holding Dante's hand, saying something I couldn't hear. His other hand rested gently against Isobel's stomach, and he was smiling—really smiling.

In five years together, Dante had come to my parents' house exactly once. That was after I proposed.

Our families lived thirty minutes apart. Before that night, he'd never once come on his own.

He didn't like being around older people, he said. Made him uncomfortable.

And even that one visit, he'd been polite. Nothing more. Nothing like the warmth radiating off him in those photos with Isobel's family.

I closed my eyes, swallowed back the bitterness, and turned my phone off.

The next morning, I called a few friends to tell them the wedding was off.

Dante had never wanted a wedding in the first place. He thought it was meaningless pageantry. I'd had to push for a small one—just immediate family and close friends.

My friends knew how I felt about Dante. The news landed hard.

"Haven't you been in love with Dante for, like, forever? Why are you suddenly calling it off?"

Bitterness I couldn't name rose in my throat.

Walking away from twenty years—how was that ever going to be easy?

But the truth was, this relationship had been uneven from the start.

From the beginning to now, I was always the one chasing. He was always the one walking ahead.

I used to tell myself I didn't mind. If I could get him to say yes to marriage, I could earn his heart after the wedding. I was willing to wait—wait until he finally opened up to me.

Then Isobel showed up six months ago, the supposed woman who'd saved his life, and everything shifted.

I realized Dante wasn't cold to everyone.

With Isobel, he was always soft-eyed. Always generous with his smiles.

With me, I was always the supporting cast.

What made it unbearable was this: he had pretended to ask my permission, while behind my back, quietly, he'd already put a child inside her.

That was when I understood. Dante and I had no future.

I didn't tell my friends the truth. I just said I was taking a position at a hospital and wouldn't be reachable for a while.

To make it up to them, I stayed out drinking with them until past midnight.

When I got home, Dante had just walked in.

He caught the smell of wine on me, frowned, and stepped back, lifting a hand to his nose in distaste.

"Keep your distance. Don't get that stink on me."

I almost laughed out loud.

He was worried about the alcohol fumes reaching Isobel.

She was pregnant now, after all.

I said nothing. Went straight to the shower.

When I came out, Dante was on the couch, typing furiously on his phone, a soft little smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

I glanced at him and turned toward the bedroom.

Then he stopped me.

"There's something I need to discuss with you."

My feet froze.

The last time he'd used that line was a month ago—when he'd first told me he wanted to have a child with Isobel. We'd fought about it for thirty straight days after.

Now Isobel was already pregnant. What could he possibly have left to discuss?