One Thousand Years

On my 30th birthday, I stood in a grand gala, believing I was celebrating twelve years with Ethan, the man I loved, and his big project win.

But my "celebration" was a pathetic banner and a wilting cupcake, while the main stage projected a smiling tribute to Ethan and his "brilliant protégé" – his intern, Madison.

Ethan, oblivious, pointed to the cupcake, "Madison arranged that. Sweet, right?" His intern's "adorkable" hug felt like a trap, her eyes gleaming with malice.

The betrayals escalated: abandoned on a dark train platform for Madison's "panic attack," our anniversary skipped for her "lost keys," and the ultimate insult – being asked to give her my concert ticket.

The final blow came when Ethan, in a fit of rage, weaponized my deepest shame, snarling, "You' re just like your father, always putting your hands on things that don't belong to you."