Randy marched over with that loose, drunk swagger I had once called charming. Before I could speak, he grabbed my jaw.

Hard.

His thumb pressed into one cheek, his fingers into the other, forcing my face upward.

“Good girl,” he slurred.

Something in me went very still.

Not broken.

Still.

I pulled back, and his hand slipped away.

His friends howled.

Randy turned to Michael, who had approached with alarm written across his face.

“Don’t bother bringing her any food,” Randy said. “My little ATM is getting a little chubby anyway.”

The laughter crashed over me.

One friend dragged out a chair. Another bumped the table. My water glass tipped, spilling ice-cold water into my lap and across the expensive dress I had bought because Randy once told me I looked “less tired” in satin.

No one apologized.

Randy barely noticed.

He snapped his fingers at Michael.

“Three bottles of your most expensive champagne.”

Michael’s jaw tightened. “Sir—”

Randy pointed at me without even looking. “Put it on her tab.”

His friends cheered.

And just like that,
my heartbreak turned into something clean, cold, and dangerous.

I reached for my purse.

For three years, I had protected Randy from overdue notices, landlords, repo threats, unpaid debts, and the embarrassing truth of his own uselessness.

For three years, I had confused rescue with romance.

That night, while Randy’s friends chanted his name and strangers watched me drown in humiliation, I realized the most loving thing I could do for myself was let him sink.

Slowly, I stood.

Randy was too busy laughing to notice.

I leaned close, placed one hand gently on his shoulder, and smiled.

He looked up, smug and glassy-eyed.

“What?” he said. “You mad, puppy?”

“No,” I whispered.
“I’m done.”

Then I walked straight toward the emergency exit.

Behind me, I heard Randy bark a laugh. “She’ll be back.”

I pushed the door open.

The alarm screamed.

Cool night air hit my wet dress like a slap.

And for the first time in three years, I did not turn around.

Outside, I stood in the alley behind Le Petit Château with my heart pounding against my ribs. The alarm cut off after a few seconds, leaving only distant traffic and my own shaking breath.

My phone buzzed.

Randy.

Then again.

I ignored him and opened my banking app.

First, I froze the joint “household” card Randy used for groceries, gas, bar tabs, gaming subscriptions, and whatever else he decided was essential.

Then I logged into the utility portal and removed autopay.

Then the phone account.

Then the streaming services.

Then the insurance rider on the Mustang.

My hands were steady now.

Each canceled payment felt like cutting a rope from around my own throat.

A text came through.

Randy: Card declined. Stop being dramatic.

Then another.

Randy: Sarah. They’re saying the bill is $812.

Randy: You’re embarrassing me.

I laughed once, sharply, alone in the alley.

Me.

I was embarrassing him.

I ordered an Uber and went home.

Not our home.

My apartment.

My name was the only name on the lease, though Randy had slept there for eighteen months and called it “our place” whenever he wanted to invite people over. By the time I reached the building, my phone showed seventeen missed calls.

I let them ring.

Inside, the apartment smelled like Randy’s cologne, old pizza, and the lavender candles I burned to pretend I lived somewhere peaceful.

I changed out of the soaked dress and into sweatpants. Then I did something I should have done years earlier.

I packed Randy’s things.