The Girl He Called Practice

I turned down a full scholarship to Stanford to follow my boyfriend of ten years to Columbia.

I thought my sacrifice was an act of love, until I heard him laughing with his best friend in the kitchen.

He was speaking French, confident that his "simple" girlfriend couldn't understand a word.

"Elle était juste une pratique," he sneered. "She was just practice. A training session. That' s all."

My blood ran cold.

He went on to explain that I was just a "safety net" to keep his bed warm while he pursued his real target, a famous model named Bella.

He claimed I was pathetic, loyal, and would never leave him.

The irony?

I had spent years secretly mastering French to impress his grandmother.

I understood every single insult.

I didn't confront him.

I didn't make a scene.

I simply walked into the bedroom, withdrew my application from Columbia, and accepted the offer from Stanford.

By the time he realized his "safety net" was gone, I was already across the country, and he was blocked on everything.

Chapter 1

Kiera Case POV:

The scent of him, musk and a hint of expensive cologne, still clung to my skin, a cruel reminder of the promises whispered just hours ago. He'd vowed a future, a life woven together, and I, fool that I was, had believed every single word. Now, the low murmur of his voice from the living room, punctuated by another man' s deeper tones, sliced through the fragile peace of the pre-dawn apartment. Felix and Dion. His best friend, his confidant. My stomach clenched. I should have been asleep, nestled against him, but a lingering restlessness had kept me awake, heading to the kitchen for water.

Then I heard it. Not just their voices, but the clipped, rapid fire of French. My blood ran cold, a familiar dread coiling in my gut. Felix rarely spoke French when I was around. It was his private language, a tool he used to exude an air of exclusivity, to mark boundaries for those he deemed "outsiders." I was supposed to be an insider. I' d spent years learning French, secretly, meticulously, hoping to impress his formidable grandmother, Madame Decker, who only communicated in her native tongue. It had been my quiet homage to his world, a silent declaration of my commitment. He didn't know I understood. He couldn't.

"Elle était juste une pratique, mon ami. Une séance d'entraînement. C'est tout."

His words, crystal clear, hit me like a physical blow. He said, "She was just practice, my friend. A training session. That's all." Every atom in my body screamed, froze, shattered. My hand flew to my mouth, stifling a gasp. The glass I held trembled, threatening to fall. My breath hitched, caught in my throat, each beat of my heart a painful, deafening drum against my ribs.

Dion chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "Et maintenant, la vraie cible?"

"Oui. Bella Ramsey. Elle est le prix. Kiera... Kiera est bonne pour garder le lit au chaud. Toujours là. Un filet de sécurité. Elle ne partira jamais."

"And now, the real target?" Dion asked.

"Yes. Bella Ramsey. She is the prize. Kiera... Kiera is good for keeping the bed warm. Always there. A safety net. She' ll never leave."

The words echoed in the sudden, horrifying silence of my mind. Practice. Safety net. Never leave. My world, built on years of shared history and unspoken devotion, crumbled into dust around me. It wasn't just a breakup; it was a demolition. He saw me as a placeholder, a convenience, a warm body until the "real prize" came along. And his certainty that I would "never leave" was the most chilling part. He knew my loyalty, my blind devotion, and he had weaponized it against me. The air in the kitchen grew heavy, suffocating. My vision blurred at the edges.

A few moments later, the living room door creaked open. I heard Felix's light footsteps approaching, humming a tune from the playlist we' d created together. He paused in the doorway of the kitchen, his eyes, still heavy-lidded from sleep, crinkling at the corners in that charming way he had.

"Hey, sleepyhead," he murmured, his voice soft, laced with a tenderness that now felt like venom. He moved towards me, wrapping an arm around my waist, pressing a kiss to my hair. "Couldn' t sleep? Need a cuddle?"

My skin crawled. His touch, which had once felt like home, now felt like a viper' s coil. A wave of nausea washed over me, hot and cold at the same time. I managed a weak smile, pulling away gently. "Just thirsty. I' m going back to bed." My voice sounded alien, thin and reedy. I wondered if he could hear the tremor, the lie behind my eyes.

I walked past him, each step an effort, my legs feeling like lead. I didn' t look back. I locked myself in my bedroom, leaning against the cold wood of the door, fighting the urge to vomit. My beautiful, perfect world had just imploded, and the debris was all over the floor. I stumbled to my bed, collapsing onto the duvet, my hands shaking uncontrollably. The tears came then, hot and stinging, burning tracks down my cheeks. They weren't soft, quiet tears. They were wrenching sobs that tore at my chest, each one an agony. It felt like my lungs were collapsing, like my heart was being squeezed by an invisible, cruel hand.

Our first kiss, under the old oak tree in his backyard, a clumsy, innocent brush of lips when we were fourteen. The way he' d held my hand through my grandmother's funeral, a silent anchor in my grief. All the late-night study sessions, the dreams we'd shared, planning our lives together at Columbia. He'd always said we were destined for it, partners in everything. Partners. The word tasted like ash in my mouth now. No, I was his shadow, his backup, his practice.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, making me jump. A message. From Felix.

"Morning, sunshine. Dion just left. Gotta head to the office early. Big meeting about the Ramsey Tower acquisition. Catch you later, my love. Think of me. xoxo"

Ramsey Tower. Bella Ramsey. The casual mention of her name, intertwined with his work, his future, our supposed future... it was a fresh stab. He wasn't thinking of me, not really. He was thinking of his public image, his "prize." He was already moving on, barely hours after promising me the world, and he expected me to sit here, waiting, thinking of him?

My stomach churned. I reached for the phone, my fingers fumbling. The message, his pet name for me – my love – the casual kiss, it all felt like a mockery. A hot wave of fury, cold dread, and profound disgust washed over me. With trembling fingers, I tapped on the message, deleting it. Then, with a fierce resolve I hadn' t known I possessed, I found his contact. Block. Block number. There. It was a small, almost insignificant action, but it felt like tearing off a limb, a painful, necessary amputation. The silence after was deafening, yet strangely lighter.

I curled into a ball on the bed, pulling my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible. Ten years. Ten years of my life had been inextricably linked to Felix Decker. We grew up next door, our lives a seamless tapestry of shared childhoods. He was the golden boy, the heir, charming and effortlessly popular. I was the quiet, studious girl, always a step behind, always watching, always supporting. I'd been his biggest cheerleader, his most loyal confidante, his unofficial assistant, always ready to lend a hand, always there to pick up the pieces when one of his fleeting romances inevitably crashed. He' d leaned on me, confided in me, and sometimes, in unguarded moments, he' d looked at me with an intensity that made my heart pound, making me believe he saw me, truly saw me, beyond the shadow. He'd even held my hand once, a long, comforting squeeze, when I told him about my dream of becoming an architect, sketching out impossible buildings on napkins. He'd simply smiled and said, "Anything you want, Kiera. You'll make it happen." I' d clung to those moments, those crumbs of affection, convincing myself they were proof of something deeper, something real.

My phone buzzed again, this time with a video call. It was Chloe, my best friend from high school, currently studying abroad in Paris. Her face, framed by a messy bun, filled the screen, a wide grin splitting her face. "Girl, you will NOT believe what I just saw!" she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with excitement. "I'm literally on my way to get a croissant, and guess who I spotted?"

My heart seized. No. It couldn't be. Not already.

Chloe, oblivious to the fresh wounds bleeding inside me, spun the camera around. The screen filled with the bustling backdrop of a Parisian street café. Then, the camera zoomed in, shakily, on a table. And there he was. Felix Decker. Laughing, his head thrown back, his arm draped possessively around the waist of a stunning woman with impossibly long, blonde hair and a dazzling smile. Bella Ramsey. They were sitting impossibly close, their faces inches apart, her hand resting casually on his thigh. He was whispering something in her ear, and she giggled, leaning into him, her eyes sparkling.