Chapter 1

The smell of stale coffee and Mark' s expensive cologne filled our small apartment. It was a mix that always meant he was in a good mood, which usually meant he wanted something.

I was staring at the code for my indie game, my eyes burning from the screen' s glow. Hours had bled together. This project was my baby, the one thing that was entirely mine.

Mark walked in, his phone pressed to his ear. He didn't even look at me.

"Brittany, that's brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. A networking gala? Yes, we have to go."

He laughed, a loud, booming sound that made the half-empty pizza boxes on the counter vibrate. I flinched.

He finally hung up and turned to me, his face glowing with an excitement that was never for me anymore.

"Chloe, you will not believe the idea Brittany just had."

"I think I heard," I said, not looking away from my monitor. "A gala."

"Not just a gala," he corrected, his tone immediately defensive. "It's a strategic networking event. The kind of place where real deals are made. Brittany knows everyone. This could be huge for my startup."

His 'startup.' The one I had been funding for three years with the money from my last successful game. The one that had produced nothing but a fancy website and a pile of debt.

"Mark, we have bills due. The rent is late. I gave you the money for it last week."

He waved his hand, dismissing my words like they were flies buzzing around his head.

"Details, details. You have to spend money to make money. You don't get that. You're an artist. Brittany understands the hustle."

He started pacing the small living room, stepping over a pile of his dirty laundry. He hadn' t done a single chore in weeks.

"She thinks my vision is incredible. She said my pitch deck is one of the best she's ever seen."

"I designed that pitch deck for you," I said, my voice quiet.

He stopped and looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time all evening. His eyes were cold.

"And you did a good job, for a game developer. But Brittany has a real-world perspective. She knows about marketing, branding, things that actually make money. Not just... pixels and stories."

He gestured vaguely at my computer, at the world I had spent a year building. The insult landed like a physical blow. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks.

"My 'pixels and stories' paid for this apartment, Mark. They paid for your website, your business cards, your endless 'networking' lunches."

"Don't get so emotional, Chloe," he said, his voice turning smooth and condescending. It was his gaslighting voice. "It's just a fact. Some fields are more profitable than others. It's not personal."

"It feels personal when you belittle my work while spending my money to impress your childhood friend."

"Brittany isn't just some friend! She's a business visionary! She has half a million followers. What do you have? A few thousand nerds on some gaming forum?"

The argument escalated quickly, the way it always did lately. Our words became weapons. I pointed out his broken promises, the neglected apartment, the way he looked at her. He fired back with claims that I was holding him back, that I was jealous and insecure.

He brought up the one thing he knew would hurt the most.

"Maybe if you were more focused on the real world, you'd understand. But you're stuck in your little fantasy land. It's no wonder you can't even do the one thing a woman is supposed to do right."

My breath caught in my throat. We had been trying for a baby for a year. After months of tests, the doctor had gently suggested the problem might be with him, but Mark refused to get tested. He had twisted it, making it my failure, my fault.

"You can't even get pregnant," he sneered. "What good are you?"

The cruelty of it silenced me. The room spun. All the sacrifices, all the late nights I' d worked to fund his dreams, all the love I had poured into him-it all curdled into a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

He saw my shock and pressed his advantage.

"Look at you. You're a mess. I can't build an empire with someone who cries every time I offer a little constructive criticism."

He walked over to the front door and opened it wide, letting the cold night air rush in.

"Brittany is hosting a pre-gala get-together at The Oak Room. I'm going. I can't have your negativity dragging me down before such a big night."

I just stared at him, my mind numb.

He grabbed his jacket, the expensive leather one I' d bought him for his birthday. He paused at the door, his face a mask of irritation.

"You know what? I can't do this anymore. I need space. You need to go."

"Go?" I whispered. "Mark, this is my apartment. I pay for almost all of it."

"My name is on the lease too," he shot back. "And right now, I need you out. I can't think with you here. Just pack a bag and go to a friend's place or something. I need to focus on my future."

He didn't even wait for a response. He just walked out, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoed in the sudden, crushing silence.

I stood there for a long time, the screen of my game casting a lonely light on my face. He had kicked me out. He had taken my money, my love, my dreams for our future, and then he had kicked me out.

My eyes drifted to the window. Across the narrow courtyard, I could see a light on in my neighbor' s apartment. Liam. The quiet carpenter who lived next door. He was usually on his small balcony in the evenings, carving wood.

I had never spoken to him beyond a polite "hello" in the hallway. But tonight, I was desperate. I had nowhere else to go.

Taking a shaky breath, I grabbed my purse and my keys. I didn't know what I was going to say, but I knew I couldn't stay in that apartment for one more minute. I walked out of the home I had built and knocked on a stranger' s door.