Abandoned in White

For three years, I played second fiddle to my boyfriend' s "childhood friend," Eve.

When Damion finally whisked me away to Paris to rekindle our dying spark, I thought things might change.

Instead, the moment we arrived, he abandoned me in the hotel lobby without my passport because Eve called with a "crisis."

I spent my first night in Paris stranded and penniless while he rushed to comfort her.

When he finally returned the next morning, he didn't apologize.

He flew into a rage because I' d sought safety in an old college friend' s room, accusing me of cheating while he still smelled like her cheap perfume.

He actually punched the only man who helped me, screaming that I was the toxic one.

The gaslighting was the final straw. I didn't feel anger anymore, just a cold, liberating indifference.

While he begged on his knees, quitting his job and promising to cut Eve off forever, I simply walked away.

I boarded a plane to London for a promotion I' d once turned down for him, leaving him with nothing but his regrets and the "friend" he chose over me.

Chapter 1

Charlotte Head POV:

He was watching me again, that familiar, almost possessive stare burning into my back from across the crowded gallery. I didn't need to turn around to know it was Damion. The air always felt thinner, sharper, when he was near. Three years. Three years of this. My heart, once a frantic drum whenever he entered a room, now beat with the slow, steady rhythm of a metronome set to indifference.

"Charlotte." His voice, smooth as always, sliced through the low hum of conversation.

I turned slowly, a practiced, blank smile plastered on my face. "Damion."

His eyes narrowed slightly. He hadn't expected that tone, that distant politeness. He was used to my warmth, my concern, my exasperation. Not this quiet void. "You're here." It wasn't a question, but an accusation.

"Last I checked, I was allowed to attend gallery openings," I said, my voice flat. My gaze swept over the art, lingering on a particularly vibrant abstract piece. It was so alive. So unlike me, these days.

"I called you," he pressed, ignoring my deflection. "Several times. You didn't answer."

A faint hum of annoyance vibrated in my chest, a residual echo of old hurt. I remembered the days I'd clung to my phone, desperate for his calls, for any sign he remembered me when he was with Eve. He' d called me "controlling," "needy," for wanting basic communication. Now, he wanted it. What a cruel joke.

"Phone was on silent," I lied, effortlessly. "Busy admiring the art."

"Charlotte! You made it!" Liam, my colleague from the marketing firm, draped an arm over my shoulder, pulling me slightly away from Damion. He gave Damion a cool nod. "Didn't expect to see you here, Gillespie. Last time I checked, modern art wasn't your thing."

Damion's jaw tightened. "Just supporting a friend's exhibit." He gestured vaguely towards a corner. "Eve's here. She knows the artist."

Of course Eve was here. Eve was always here. Everywhere. Always a presence, a shadow, a priority. I felt nothing at the mention of her name. Not anger, not jealousy, just... nothing. A quiet emptiness.

"Well, you two enjoy," Liam said, his grip on my shoulder a comforting anchor. "Charlotte and I were just discussing the merits of chaotic brushstrokes over structured realism. Much more stimulating conversation than... well, you know." He winked, subtly implying Damion's usual brand of superficiality.

Damion bristled. "Charlotte, we should talk," he insisted, stepping closer, trying to reclaim my attention. "I tried to reach you all week. I left messages."