What We Was

My passions burn out in minutes. The only flame I tended for a decade was my love for the rogue, Ross Croft.
For him, I dyed my hair a respectable brown, had my tattoos lasered off, and learned to be the perfect good girl. Everyone, even his parents, assumed we were destined to be together.
Then, at his own birthday party, he proposed to another woman and told me to stop clinging to him.
In that instant, the good girl died. I kicked over the five-tier cake I’d made for him and gave him a lazy, chilling smile.
"Ross," I said, my voice dripping with boredom. "Turns out, you're nothing like him."
"And since you're not, I don't want you anymore."
Only then did they all understand. Ten years of devotion wasn't a love story. It was a game of stand-ins.
And Ross? He simply broke.

1
I placed the last diamond chip into the frosting and let out a long breath. This was the birthday gift I’d been planning for Ross for months.
He hated sweets, so I’d spent weeks adjusting the sugar content in the batter until it was just to his liking. He collected supercars, so I’d flown to France six months ago to study under a master fondant artist. I’d practiced endlessly, my hands riddled with tiny cuts from the modeling tools, all to craft this one-of-a-kind cake in the shape of his favorite Ferrari.
My instructor, watching my obsessive dedication, had sighed with envy.
"Tu l'aimes beaucoup!" (You love him so much!)
I’d only smiled, not saying a word, and turned to look at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger in a prim, pink Chanel-style suit. Her long, dark hair was pin-straight, her eyes soft and slightly pink at the corners, like a startled rabbit’s.
She looked sweet. Compliant. Easily broken.
I was satisfied. This was the version of me Ross liked.
No one could believe it. Audrey Hawthorne, the wild heiress who used to live in tattoo parlors and smoky clubs, had tamed herself for a man like Ross. I’d grown out my hair, scrubbed the ink from my skin, and willingly played the part of the devoted girlfriend.
I’d been playing it for ten years.
Even Ross’s parents would marvel, "That Audrey… her loyalty is truly something special." Everyone was certain we would end up together. For a while, I think even Ross believed it.
…
As I watched the staff carefully load the cake into the delivery van, a familiar restlessness clawed at my chest. I clenched my fists, forcing it down, and turned to the head caterer with a serene smile plastered on my face.
I, who had the attention span of a goldfish, had managed to love him for a decade.
I must, I thought, I must love him very, very much.

2
Ross's party wasn't until the evening, so I had time to go home and get ready. A text from him came through.
[Something came up at the office. See you at the party.]
I rubbed the textured pattern on my phone case and typed back a simple [Ok].
But for the past nine birthdays, no matter how busy he was, Ross had always come to get ready with me. Today was the first time he’d ever bailed.
As my makeup artist was working, my phone buzzed. It was a picture from a friend. The setting looked like a parking garage. In the photo, Ross was leaning against a Ferrari, one hand in the pocket of his bespoke embroidered suit. He was a contradiction in tailored silk—all discipline and sin.
His head was slightly bowed, a look of indulgent fondness in his eyes as he spoke with a woman in a simple white dress. She was gazing up at him, her profile soft and unassuming.
I recognized her. His new assistant, Mia. She was… plain. Not a showstopper. But for some reason, Ross valued her immensely. I didn't know when it started, but her name was constantly on his lips. He was even texting her during our anniversary dinner a few months back.
"Everything okay?" I had asked, feigning nonchalance.
He’d looked up, a flicker of panic in his eyes that vanished as quickly as it appeared. "Oh, just a work thing. It's handled."
He thought he'd hidden it so well, but he couldn't hide the triumphant little smile playing at the corner of his mouth. I lost my appetite after that and made an excuse to leave early. He didn’t seem to notice my mood. In fact, he looked relieved.
"Miss Hawthorne," the stylist said softly, seeing me staring into space. "It's time for the dress."
I blinked, coming back to the present. The dress laid out for me was a pale white, almost gothic gown with layers of lace. Proper. Demure.
I thought for a moment, then raised a hand and pointed to a different dress hanging in the corner—a fiery red, low-cut mermaid gown, tailored to accentuate every curve.
"That one."
The stylist froze.
I looked at the perfectly sweet, gentle face in the mirror and sneered.
"Change the makeup, too," I said. "This face… it feels like a lie."

3
When I arrived, the party was in full swing. Ross was the center of it all, holding court by the towering cake I’d made. When he saw me, a flash of stunned admiration crossed his face before he beckoned me over.
The crowd whistled and parted, creating a path for me. I walked slowly toward him, coming to a stop on one side of him while Mia stood on the other. Red and white. Fire and ice. It was quite a picture.
Someone laughed. "Look at Ross, flanked by beauties! Especially you, Audrey. You're absolutely lethal tonight."
I gave him a polite smile in return. My stylist had given me bombshell waves and a bold, red lip—a look I hadn't worn in ten years. Their surprise was understandable. If the old Audrey Hawthorne was a wildfire, the woman I'd been for the last decade was a stagnant pond.
A waiter passed by, and I snagged a glass of champagne. Just then, Mia’s soft, airy voice cut in.
"You look… different tonight, Miss Hawthorne."
I nodded, my expression cool. I saw her bite her lip, a flicker of raw jealousy in her eyes. It was almost funny.
I raised my glass to her. "And you, Miss Mia, look as charmingly provincial as ever."
Her face, already pale under a thick layer of foundation, went a shade whiter.
While we exchanged pleasantries sharp as daggers, Ross’s gaze was fixed on my back. The red dress had a daring design—it was completely backless, showcasing the sharp lines of my shoulder blades. Sexy. Languid.
But I knew what he was really looking at. The ghost of a tattoo.
The first time Ross saw that tattoo, he’d been consumed with a wild, possessive jealousy. He begged me to add his name to it. I neither agreed nor refused. Instead, I went and had the whole thing lasered off. When he saw the raw, red skin, his expression was unreadable, but he never mentioned it again.

4
The party I’d thrown for Ross was lavish. Champagne flowed freely, and a DJ was spinning by the poolside. Just as the gift-giving portion of the evening wound down, Ross leaped onto a table and tapped a silver fork against his glass.
The sharp, clear sound silenced the buzzing crowd. All eyes turned to him, expectant. Under the glittering lights, his features seemed even sharper, more defined. So much like the face etched into my memory, and yet, completely, utterly wrong.
The photo from the parking garage flashed in my mind, and I frowned. That look on his face… it wasn't right.
Why isn't it right?
My thoughts were drifting when his voice pulled me back.
"Tonight," he announced, his voice ringing with confidence, "I have a decision to make." He paused, his eyes finding mine across the room. "I want to make it official with someone. I want her to stand by my side, out in the open."
His tone was absolute, his gaze filled with a deep, performative affection. I squeezed my hands together, suppressing a wave of irritation, and returned his look with a placid smile. Deep down, a primal scream was building, an urge to flee.
After a moment of stunned silence, the crowd erupted in cheers. One of Ross’s louder friends yelled out, "Congratulations, Audrey! You finally tamed the beast! The infamous Ross Croft is officially off the market!"
Ross shot him a look so sharp it could cut glass, and the man immediately shut his mouth. The celebratory mood curdled, the air growing thick and heavy.
I felt a shift before it happened. Ross’s voice changed as he turned away from me and knelt on one knee before Mia.
"Mia," he said, his voice ringing with manufactured sincerity. "Will you marry me?"
I wasn’t shocked. It was just another scene in a long-running farce. I even had the presence of mind to watch Mia's reaction. As expected, it was a masterclass in theatrics: first, wide-eyed surprise, then tears of joy, followed by a flash of smug triumph that she quickly masked with a look of feigned horror.
She covered her mouth, her voice a trembling whisper. "Ross, please don't joke like this. Audrey is right here."
One of my loyal friends, unable to stomach the scene, finally spoke up. "Ross, what the hell are you doing? What about Audrey? This is Audrey Hawthorne you're humiliating!"
I waited, curious to see how he would respond.
He set his champagne glass down with a heavy thud, his tone dripping with casual indifference. "I never promised you anything, did I, Audrey?"
He was a master at this, at turning the tables and making me the bad guy. He was counting on me to be the same obedient girl I’d always been, to quietly accept the humiliation and smooth things over for him.
I smiled, a slow, sweet curve of my lips. My voice was impossibly gentle. "Ross, what are you trying to say?"
He seemed surprised by my question. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, followed by a secret, thrilling pleasure. He leaned in, his voice a low warning.
"Audrey, don't cling. It's pathetic."

5
His words were still hanging in the air when my fingers went slack. The champagne flute dropped, shattering on the marble floor and forcing Ross to halt his advance.
Every eye in the room was on me.
A hot, furious energy surged through me. I glanced down at the restrictive mermaid tail of my gown. That was the last straw. I was done pretending.
I languidly brushed a stray curl from my forehead. Then, with a theatrical slowness, I gathered the hem of the skirt in my hand. With a single, sharp tug, the sound of tearing silk filled the silent room. The designer gown ripped apart, exposing my legs.
A collective gasp went through the crowd.
But I wasn't finished. I tossed the shredded fabric aside and, with a swift, fluid motion, kicked the base of the five-tiered cake stand.
To hell with being the good girl.
The cake toppled, crashing to the ground in a grotesque explosion of fondant and buttercream.
Standing amidst the sugary ruin, I gave Ross a lazy, devastating smile. My words were slow, deliberate, each one a perfectly polished stone aimed at his heart.
"Ross, turns out, you're nothing like him."
"And since you're not, I don't want you anymore."

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