And then there was me.

I stood by the side station, adjusting the black apron tied tightly around my waist. My fingers trembled slightly as I smoothed down the fabric of my black uniform dress. It was a standard size 14—the largest the restaurant stocked—and the side zipper always dug into my ribs like a dull blade by the seventh hour of my shift.

“Emily, Table 4 needs another bottle of Dom Pérignon,” my manager, Marcus, hissed as he passed me, his eyes flitting over my posture with visible distaste. “And wipe your forehead. You’re glistering. We sell an aesthetic here, not manual labor.”

“Yes, Mr. Vance,” I murmured, lowering my gaze.

I picked up the silver tray, forcing my shoulders back. I couldn’t afford to lose this job. My mother’s dialysis treatments were three weeks behind, and the collection notices were no longer polite letters; they were bright yellow slips delivered by certified mail.

I walked toward Table 4, keeping my eyes on the polished marble floor to avoid the subtle shifts in posture from the patrons. I knew what they saw when they looked at me. In a room full of polished marble, I was raw clay.

As I approached the center of the dining room, a loud, booming laugh cut through the ambient jazz. My heart didn’t just drop—it froze solid.

I knew that laugh. I had spent three years mistaking it for warmth.

Standing beside Table 8 was Tyler.

He looked magnetic. His dark hair was expertly styled, his navy suit fitted to absolute perfection, and his smile—broad, white, and completely devoid of warmth—shated the attention of everyone within ten feet. Beside him stood a woman who looked as though she had been sculpted from gold. Vanessa. She was tall, impossibly lean, draped in a backless emerald dress, her blonde hair falling in effortless waves down her exposed spine. On her left ring finger sat a cushion-cut diamond so large it caught the chandelier light and threw prismatic sparkles across the white tablecloth.

“A toast!” Tyler announced, raising his crystal flute high. His voice had that practiced, commanding booming quality he had honed during his years in corporate sales. “To the future Mrs. Tyler Vance. The most stunning woman in Chicago, and the only one who could ever truly complement my life.”

The surrounding tables clapped warmly. Glasses clinked. Vanessa beamed, resting her manicured hand on Tyler’s chest, leaning in to press a light kiss to his cheek.

I stood frozen ten feet away, clutching the silver tray against my chest like a shield. Three months ago, Tyler had moved his things out of our shared apartment while I was at my morning shift at the bakery. He hadn’t left a note. Just a empty closet and a text three days later telling me he had “outgrown the domestic life.”

Now I knew what he meant. He hadn’t outgrown domesticity; he had traded up.

I tried to pull back into the shadows near the kitchen doors, but my foot caught the edge of a chair leg. The silver tray rattled softly against my belt.

Tyler’s eyes snapped toward the sound.

For a fraction of a second, surprise flickered across his sharp features. Then, a slow, cruel smirk spread across his lips—the exact expression he used to wear right before he explained to me why I shouldn’t wear sleeveless shirts in public.

“Well, well,” Tyler said, his voice dropping into a register that was clearly intended to carry. “Look who’s clearing our trash.”

Vanessa turned, her blue eyes scanning me with mild curiosity, as if looking at a stray dog that had somehow wandered into a gallery. “Who is that, babe?”

“That’s Emily,” Tyler said loudly enough for the neighboring three tables to stop their quiet conversations. “My ex.”

A quiet murmur rippled through Table 6. A couple at Table 10 turned around in their leather booth.

My face burned with a heat so intense I felt lightheaded. “Congratulations on your engagement, Tyler,” I managed to say, my voice raspy. “I’ll… I’ll get your server.”

“No, wait,” Tyler commanded, stepping into my path as I tried to turn. “Don’t run away. We were just talking about you the other day, weren’t we, Van?”

Vanessa giggled, wrapping her arm through his. “Tyler, don’t be mean.”

“I’m not being mean, I’m being reflective,” Tyler said, turning to address the room at large. He held up his champagne glass as if delivering a keynote speech. “You know, when Emily and I were together, she used to tell me that beauty didn’t matter. She used to say, ‘Someone will love me for my heart, Tyler.'”

He mimicked a high-pitched, pathetic whimper that sounded nothing like me, yet drew a sharp chuckle from a businessman sitting nearby.