Part 1Replaced By A Better Man

It was past midnight when my phone buzzed on the cluttered desk. I was in the middle of a grueling overtime shift, the harsh fluorescent lights of the office humming a low, irritating tune.

The text was from Jerry, my boyfriend of five years.

I ended the lease on our apartment. Sent you the new address.

I stared at the screen, a familiar, cold weight settling in my chest. I didn't need to look up the zip code to know what this meant.

Is this about Melanie again? I typed back, my fingers trembling slightly.

Melanie. The fragile, self-made, fiercely independent girl Jerry couldn't stop talking about.

This would be our third move in six months.

We had started in a gorgeous, high-rise loft in the Gold Coast, close to everything. Then we downgraded to a noisy mid-rise, and now, according to the map, we were heading to a cramped, sketchy neighborhood on the outskirts of the city.

All to be closer to Melanie.

Predictably, my text struck a nerve. His reply came back almost instantly, sharp and defensive.

Don't start with the jealousy, Regina. Someone followed her home from work last night. She was terrified.

You’re both women. Where is your empathy?

I looked out the window. The Chicago skyline was dark, swallowed by the freezing winter night. A sudden, deep exhaustion washed over me.

I couldn't even count how many times Jerry and I had fought over Melanie. It was an exhausting loop: first came my anger and hurt, then his accusations, and finally, this hollow silence.

I don't have time for this, his next text read. I'm going to pick her up from her shift.

Before I could type a response, he hung up—metaphorically speaking, cutting off the conversation with the finality of a locked screen.

Not once during this entire process had Jerry asked if I wanted to move.

Not once did he ask if I wanted him to pick me up, even though it was freezing and past 1 a.m.

So, I didn't ask for his opinion either.

I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the corporate relocation agreement that had been sitting there for a week.

With a steady hand, I signed my name at the bottom: Regina Davies.

* * *

Before packing up, I knocked on my manager's door. Sandra was still at her desk. I handed her the signed contract for the London transfer.

She looked up, startled. "Regina? I thought you said you wanted to stay in Chicago because of your boyfriend. You didn't want the long-distance."

Most of the senior team had families tying them down, so Sandra had practically begged me to take the post. It was a massive promotion—a career-defining opportunity. But back then, the thought of leaving Jerry had made me reject it without a second thought.

I offered her a tight, polite smile. "I wasn't thinking clearly back then. I used to believe love could fix everything."

Sandra looked at me, a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes. She didn't press. She just took the paperwork and patted my shoulder gently. "We're lucky to have you, Regina."

Getting a cab at 1:30 a.m. in the freezing cold was a nightmare. I stood on the curb, the biting winter wind cutting right through my coat.

I watched my coworkers get picked up one by one. Greg, who lived in my old neighborhood, noticed me shivering.

"Hey, Regina! No ride tonight? Is Jerry out of town? Come on, hop in, I'll drop you off. Just tell him he owes me a beer!"

I forced a smile and shook my head. "Thanks, Greg, but I actually moved. I'm not on your route anymore."

He thought I was just being polite, but when I told him the new neighborhood, his eyes widened slightly.

"Oh. That's... a bit of a trek."

"Yeah. My ride is almost here anyway. Don't worry about me."

I waited in the freezing wind for another forty minutes before a rideshare finally pulled up.

Our old high-rise apartment had been a ten-minute walk from my office, in a highly secure building. Back then, Jerry used to worry if I stayed late. He would wait downstairs in his car, heater blasting, just to make sure I walked the short distance safely.

Now, we were living in a place that was a ninety-minute drive in traffic. And Jerry hadn't even asked how I was getting home.

By the time I unlocked my phone in the back of the cab, it was 2:30 a.m. My fingers were stiff and numb. There were several texts from coworkers making sure I got home safe.

I replied to each of them. But Jerry's chat, pinned at the very top of my messages, was a blank slate.

A dry, humorless laugh escaped my lips. I opened Instagram.

The very first post on my feed was from Melanie.

Thanks to my favorite guy for picking me up. Best boyfriend in the world.

It was a photo of Jerry's profile as he drove, his jawline sharp in the dim dashboard light.

She was sitting in the passenger seat. My seat. The one Jerry had always insisted was exclusively mine.

The comments were flooded with heart emojis and "Are you guys finally official?" comments.

Melanie had replied to almost all of them: Omg guys, it was a typo! Don't make it weird! We're just really close friends!

And there, right at the top of the likes, was Jerry's profile picture.

I tapped the heart icon, adding my own like to the post. Then I closed the app, opened my messages, and unpinned Jerry's contact.