I laughed—sharp, incredulous—and turned toward the endless churn of cars on the street, letting my focus blur. I needed the cool air to steady my thoughts, anchor my pulse. Only when my mind caught up with my heart did I spin back toward him, sarcasm slipping bright and bitter from my lips.

"Yosef, I’m not a garbage dump. No matter how much I once loved you, no matter what I gave up for you, the day you chose to betray me, you threw away any claim to that love."

I pivoted to leave, but anger flared hot in my chest, refusing to settle. Halfway gone, I turned back and jabbed a finger toward him, the final twist of the knife.

"Even if every man on this planet dropped dead, Yosef, I still wouldn’t look at you twice. You disgust me."

Something in my words must’ve struck marrow, because he stepped forward, desperation bleeding into his voice, into his eyes.

"Whit, I love you! These six years—every moment of them—they’re etched in me, unforgettable." His voice cracked as he clutched at invisible threads, grasping like a drowning man. "But Yara… she’s dying. She’s so helpless, so tragic. All she has left in this world is this one small wish—"

"Let go of me!"

"Whit, I swear, after Yara—"

Smack.

I didn’t let him finish. My palm met his other cheek with a brutal snap, its symmetry as satisfying as it was searing. Now the slap-marks on his perfect face mirrored each other nicely.

"Yosef," I said coldly, venom curling through every syllable, "do the world a favor and try being an actual human. Stop polluting my life." Without waiting for his reply, I turned on my heel and walked away.

*****

I never sent formal announcements about the wedding cancelation to friends or extended family. It didn’t seem worth it. I told only two people: my grandmother and my aunt.

Grandma, nearly eighty, had weathered griefs that could crush entire lifetimes—the deaths of both her husband and my mother had left her weak, delicate, her health waning more with every passing year.

I thought the news might break her, shatter her incapable body.

But Grandma, wise and unshakable as ever, took it in stride. There were tears at first—an aching sadness, a flash of anger—but soon enough, she rested her hand over mine and consoled me instead.

"Better to recognize people like him now than later," she said quietly, her voice rich with a lived clarity. "Imagine if it’d been after the marriage, or worse, with children involved. The deeper the roots, the more devastating the pull. You’re young and beautiful, Whitley. You’ve got your whole career ahead of you. There’s no rush. Take your time. Even if you don’t find someone steady and reliable, I’ll be happy as long as you’re happy. That’s enough for me."

My aunt said it best: Grandma’s eyes might have dimmed with age, but her heart, sharp and discerning, saw straighter than any of ours.

She’d already unraveled the myths of men and marriage through the threads of my mother’s broken life.

Their support lightened me, buoyed me, and by the time I walked back into work, I was ready—no, determined—to thrive again. Especially now that I wasn’t just an employee; I was the boss. If anything, I owed it to myself to work harder, smarter.

The morning meeting wrapped after an hour, and I returned to my office, the day already chasing me. My assistant, Cherry, knocked on the door.

"Whitley," she said, peeking in, "Mr. Grayson is here."

Yosef?

I barely managed a frown of puzzlement before Yosef himself appeared at the doorway, half a shadow of formal regret.

"Thanks, Cherry," I said, waving her off. Whatever this was, I could handle it alone.

He didn’t step farther in, maintaining a respectful distance. "I was dropping Yara off after her hospital discharge," he explained, his voice soft but measured. "Figured I’d stop by and collect my things."

I didn’t bother responding. He used to have an office here—not heavily used but his nonetheless. A few remnants—paperweights, pens—lingered still.

I flicked my gaze back to the papers on my desk, letting my silence speak for me.

He wavered under the weight of it. When the moment stretched too long, he retreated, closing the door quietly behind him.

Seconds hadn’t passed when another knock broke my focus. I looked up, irritation simmering in my ribs. The last thing I expected was Yara standing there, pale as fading wallpaper.

What did she want now?

I leaned back in my chair, my expression slipping toward bored disdain. "If you’re looking for Yosef, he’s not here," I said flatly. "Try his office instead."

She ignored that, closing the door as she stepped lightly into the room. "No," she murmured, her voice small and airy. "I came to see you."

I frowned. "What now?" I asked, already braced for whatever absurdity she might unleash.

She meandered closer, her fragility almost alarming, as if the bones beneath her skin might dissolve at any moment. Her small face glowed with the sickly hue of faint candlelight—flickering, unsure whether to fade or fight.

Looking at her, one could have almost felt pity. But I’d seen the cruelty those thin hands were capable of clasping tight.

She stopped just short of my desk, her expression an odd marriage of hope and regret. Then, she dropped the bomb:

"I want you to be the witness at our wedding." Her lips barely moved, but the words detonated anyway. "Your presence is special—only you can give our union legitimacy. If you bless us publicly, no one at the ceremony will dare question or gossip."

My brain short-circuited.

"What did you say?" My voice didn’t tremble, but the ozone of my rage sizzled in the air. Then I barked a sharp laugh. "Are you out of your mind? Do you have any shame at all? You think everyone’s just going to sit there and smile, like they don’t see the giant neon sign of betrayal hanging over your heads? They’ll tear you apart, Yara. Rip you to fucking shreds."

Her response wasn’t courage, no—it was the flat resignation of the mortally wounded. She cried. Tears spilling wet and erratic. "Sis," she choked, every syllable hanging on a flinch. "All my life, I’ve been nothing compared to you. You’re perfect at everything, and I’ve always hated that about you. But this is all I’ll ever have left. A wedding. One happy day before I’m gone—I swear I’m not taking him from you forever. Once I’m dead, Yosef is yours again. Please, help me. Just this once..."

"Enough," I hissed, clamping my rising revulsion under control. I pointed toward the door. "Get out. Don’t make me throw you out myself."

"Please," she pleaded louder, closer, clasping at me in panicked supplication. And when her thin fingers found my arm, something inside snapped loose. I wrenched away—harder than I meant to—and she tumbled backward, crumpling like an abandoned doll.

The scream she let loose was as sharp as glass.

And just as Yosef came bursting in through the door, I watched too late as her fragile body didn’t stop its fall. The hollow crack of limbs against the floor might as well have been a gunshot.

"Yara!" Yosef’s voice rippled jagged with panic as he rushed to her, scooping her useless form with trembling hands.

She whimpered, her bloodless lips curling weakly. "Sefie—"

He glared up at me, something heavy and thunderous staining his gaze. "Whitley," he growled, "how could you? You know how sick she is, and you still hurt her?! Do you have no humanity left? She’s your sister!"

Her faint plea rose like smoke from a dying fire. "Don’t blame my sister," she murmured, her voice thin. "It—it wasn’t her fault..." Decisions I hadn't made pinned me inescapably as their tragedy overwhelmed the office.

Yosef’s anger burned straight through me, but my answer was cold, colder than either of us could've expected. "Get out. Both of you. Don’t die in my space—it’s bad fucking omen."

Yosef’s pupils jolted, as if hit by a fault line. He clearly hadn’t expected me to say something that vicious.

“Whitley, I barely recognize you! I’m the one who wronged you. How can you torment an innocent, dying person like this? Aren’t you afraid of karma?”

I let out a short laugh and didn’t back down. “You’re the one who’s ungrateful. You’re the one who did wrong. If you’re not afraid of karma, why should I be?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but the woman in his arms—Yara—let out a raw, pained moan. “Sefie…”

He glanced down and saw blood at the corner of Yara’s mouth. Panic flared hotter. “Yara, hang on. I’m taking you to the hospital right now—stay with me!”