Too Late For Tears, My Dearest Ex

For three years, I handed over my entire salary to my boyfriend, Julien. He claimed he was afraid I would spend recklessly, so to save for our future wedding, he demanded that every single purchase be submitted for his strict approval.

When I wanted to buy a cheap used car to commute, he flatly refused, telling me the subway was good enough, even though it took me three hours round-trip every day. When the brutal Chicago winter hit and temperatures plunged to negative ten degrees, I begged for a forty-dollar space heater for my freezing office. He denied it, calling me weak.

Yet, while I lived like a pauper, my best friend, Brandee, lived like a queen.

While Julien scrutinized my five-dollar coffees, I caught him spending hundreds of dollars on luxury Thanksgiving gifts for Brandee, showering her with the warmth and generosity he never gave me.

When I questioned him, he simply said Brandee appreciated the finer things, while my requests were just wasteful.

In that moment, the illusion shattered. I finally understood he wasn't frugal. He just didn't want to spend his money or my money on me. Every rejected request wasn't about saving; it was because I wasn't the right person to spend it on.

Since I was just a waste of his resources, I decided it was time to stop wasting my life on him.

Chapter 1

Elyse Delgado POV:

Today, the freezing rain poured down in sheets, turning the Chicago streets into a gray, slushy nightmare.

My marketing firm was a long walk from the nearest transit hub. I hadn't brought an umbrella, so I called Julien while standing under the brief shelter of my office building's awning.

"Julien, it's pouring, and I don't have an umbrella," I said, shivering as the icy wind whipped past me. "Can I order an Uber on the joint card? It's just a fifteen-minute ride home."

"An Uber?" Julien's voice instantly dropped into that familiar, condescending tone. "Do you know what surge pricing looks like in this weather, Elyse? That's at least forty-five dollars. You're throwing away our future for a little rain."

"Julien, it is literally freezing outside, and I'm going to get soaked."

"Take the blue line and walk home from the stop," he said coldly. "Put your hood up and stop being so delicate. We have savings goals to meet."

He hung up before I could answer.

By the time I walked the six blocks from the train station to our condo building, my feet were completely numb, and my thin wool coat was soaked through to my skin.

My teeth clicked together uncontrollably as I rode the elevator up to the fourth floor.

I pushed the front door open, desperate to get out of my wet shoes. But as I looked down at the entryway shoe rack, my frustration boiled over into pure anger.

The shoe rack had six tiers. Three entire shelves were dedicated to Julien's pristine dress shoes and sneakers. The other two and a half shelves were overflowing with designer heels, knee-high boots, and strappy sandals that didn't even belong to me.

My entire footwear collection, which consisted of three modest pairs of work shoes, was shoved haphazardly into a tiny, dusty corner on the bottom tier.

The rest belonged to Brandee.

Brandee Rasmussen wasn't just my next-door neighbor; she was supposed to be my best friend. Two years ago, when I bought this two-bedroom condo, Brandee claimed she was terrified of living alone in the city. She shamelessly begged and cried until she bought the one-bedroom unit right across the hall to be near me.

But when she renovated her place, she insisted she wanted a spacious, minimalist aesthetic and stubbornly refused to install enough cabinets.

Instead, she turned my home into her personal storage unit.

Anything that didn't fit into her pristine apartment was shoved into mine. Her off-season clothes completely took over my guest room, turning it into her personal walk-in closet. Whenever she baked, her leftover cakes and bulky ingredients monopolized my French-door refrigerator. When she hosted parties and had too many guests, she literally sent her overflow friends to sleep on my couch.

My once cozy, organized home had been completely trashed by my so-called best friend.

"Oh, Elyse! You're dripping wet!"

I looked up. Brandee was sitting at my kitchen island, sipping a hot matcha latte, wearing one of Julien's oversized cashmere sweaters.

Julien walked out of the kitchen, handing her a freshly baked croissant with a warm, doting smile. It was a smile I hadn't received in years.

"Move your shoes, Brandee," I said, my voice dead and flat.

Brandee blinked, her lower lip trembling instantly as she clutched her mug. "I just put them there because my hallway is being painted, Elyse. I didn't mean to crowd you."

"You've been crowding this entryway for six months," I said, stepping right past her wet boots. "This shoe rack has six tiers. Julien takes up three, and you've taken the rest. In my own home, my only three pairs of shoes are shoved into a tiny corner. Get your shoes out of my entryway right now."

"Elyse! What is wrong with you?" Julien barked, stepping between me and Brandee, his face twisting with disgust. "Look at how aggressive and narrow-minded you're being! Brandee is our guest and your best friend. You walk in here soaking wet, tracking water everywhere, and immediately start throwing a tantrum over a few pairs of shoes!"

Brandee quickly touched Julien's elbow, her eyes glistening with fake tears.

"It's okay, Julien," she whispered softly, playing the ultimate victim. "Elyse is right. I'm just a burden. I'll take my things back to my crowded little place. I know I don't belong here."

"You don't need to apologize for anything, Brandee," Julien said, his voice instantly softening into a soothing, protective purr. He gently patted her hand before turning to glare at me. "Girls love to dress up, Elyse. It's perfectly normal for her to have different shoes to match different outfits. Stop being so jealous and bitter just because you don't care about your appearance."

He looked at me as if I were a piece of trash stuck to his shoe. "You had a bad commute, and now you're taking your miserable mood out on her. Leave the shoes right where they are."

I looked at Julien's cold, judgmental eyes, then at Brandee's subtle, triumphant smirk hiding behind her coffee mug.

He treated me like a burden, but treated her like a princess.

I didn't argue. I didn't cry.

Instead, I calmly bent down, grabbed two pairs of Brandee's expensive suede boots and a pair of her glittering stilettos, walked over to the front door, and tossed them directly into the communal hallway.

"Elyse! What the hell are you doing?!" Julien yelled.

"Cleaning my house," I said smoothly, grabbing another armful of her heels and dumping them outside. "Since she loves her shoes so much, she can store them in her own minimalist apartment. My home is no longer a dumping ground."

"You're acting like a psycho!" Julien lunged forward to grab my wrist, but I side-stepped him sharply, my eyes flashing with a dangerous warning.

"Touch me, Julien, and see what happens," I hissed.

He froze, clearly taken aback by the sudden venom in my voice. I had always been the obedient, frugal girlfriend who backed down to keep the peace. Not today.

I took off my wet coat, dropped it right onto the kitchen island next to Brandee's croissant, and smiled a cold, silent smile.

The illusion was over. It was time to take out the trash.