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.

Kiera Case POV:

Chloe's phone shook in her hand, giving me an even closer, more sickening view of the Parisian cafe scene. Felix, his impossibly charming smile plastered across his face, leaned in to whisper something to Bella. She giggled, a sound that grated on my raw nerves, and then, completely unselfconsciously, she stretched up and kissed him. A full, lingering kiss, right there in the open, for anyone to see. For me to see.

My breath caught in my throat. Just last night, Felix had insisted he wasn't "one for public displays," especially not with me. He'd always preferred the quiet intimacy of closed doors, the stolen glances, the private whispers. He'd said it was "special," "ours." The hypocrisy was a fresh, burning brand on my soul. My vision tunneled, the edges of the screen blurring. The cafe, the passersby, Chloe's worried face – it all faded, replaced by the vivid image of Felix, his lips on hers. His words, "Elle était juste une pratique," screamed in my head, a vicious, mocking refrain.

He hadn't been afraid of public displays; he'd been afraid of exhibiting me in public. Because I was just the warm bed, the safety net, the practice. Bella Ramsey, the high-profile model, was the prize. She was the one worthy of public affection, of being paraded around like a trophy. And he hadn't wasted a single second. Just hours. It had been mere hours since he' d woken up next to me, since he' d called me "my love," since he' d promised me a shared future. He was ruthless, utterly and completely devoid of any real feeling for me. He was a predator, and I had been his unwitting prey.

A choked sob escaped me, tearing at my throat. My hands flew to my face, hot tears streaming past my fingers. The betrayal was so sharp, so complete, it felt like someone had scooped out my insides and left me hollow. My body began to shake uncontrollably, a deep, rattling tremor that started in my chest and spread through every limb. I couldn't breathe. I was choking on the pain, on the suffocating realization that the man I had loved, devoted myself to, had seen me as nothing more than an expendable prop in his grand play.

"Kiera? Oh my god, Kiera, are you okay? What' s wrong?" Chloe' s voice, now full of alarm, jolted me slightly. She' d turned the camera back to her face, her eyes wide with concern. "What happened? Why are you crying like that?"

I couldn' t speak, couldn't form words around the ragged sobs tearing through me. I just shook my head, pressing my palms harder against my eyes, trying to physically blot out the images, the words, the crushing reality.

"Kiera, please, talk to me," Chloe pleaded, her voice softer now, tinged with empathy. "Did Felix do something? Is it about Bella? I knew that girl was trouble. She' s all over his social media now, it' s disgusting the way he' s parading her around after... after everything."

After everything. Chloe didn' t even know the half of it. She didn't know about the French, about the "practice," about the "safety net." She just knew the public version of Felix's callousness, which was already more than enough.

Finally, I managed to choke out a single, raw word. "Everything."

"Everything what?" Chloe pressed gently. "Just tell me. I' m here. Whatever it is, we' ll get through it."

I took a shuddering breath, trying to regain some semblance of control. "He... he called me 'practice,' Chloe," I whispered, the words barely audible. "He called me a 'safety net.' He said he was just keeping his bed warm for Bella. In French. Right after... right after last night."

Silence. On Chloe' s end, her eyes, usually so bright and full of life, widened in horror. Her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. Her expression hardened, a fierce protectiveness flashing in her gaze. "He what?" she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "The absolute nerve of that entitled, arrogant prick! He speaks French to exclude people, Kiera. He thinks you' re too 'simple' to understand him, doesn' t he?"

I nodded, fresh tears welling up. "He always did. I learned French years ago, for his grandmother, Madame Decker. He never knew."

Chloe let out a string of curses, colorful and indignant. "Oh, Kiera. My poor Kiera. He is a truly despicable human being. And you know what? He' s always been like this. Always taking you for granted. Always knowing you' d be there to pick up his pieces, to cheer him on, to make him look good. You were always the one picking out his ties, reminding him of his mother' s birthday, making sure he had coffee before his exams. You basically ran his life for him, darling, and he just... absorbed it. He expected it."

Her words, though harsh, were a cold splash of truth. She was right. I had spent years, my entire young adulthood, shaping myself into the perfect partner for Felix. I' d adjusted my dreams, chosen Columbia simply because it was his dream school, planning to study architecture there so I could be near him, supporting him while he took over his family' s real estate empire. I' d seen it as devotion, as love. He' d seen it as an entitlement, a given. He' d used my love as a cushion, a convenient, always-present comfort. My pain twisted into a bitter knot of indignation.

"I can' t do this anymore, Chloe," I murmured, my voice barely a whisper. "I can' t. I won' t." A strange resolve began to solidify within me, a hard, cold core replacing the shattered pieces. My tears dried, leaving my cheeks feeling stiff and raw.

"Good," Chloe said, her voice firm, supportive. "It' s about damn time, Kiera. You deserve so much more than to be someone' s 'safety net.' You are brilliant, kind, beautiful, and you have dreams of your own, remember? What about Stanford? You got into Stanford' s architecture program, the best in the country, with a full scholarship! You told me you turned it down because you wanted to be with Felix at Columbia! What if... what if you didn' t?"

My head snapped up. Stanford. I had almost forgotten. It was a distant, painful memory, a road not taken for a man who didn't deserve a single step of my journey. The idea, whispered by Chloe, settled into the hollow space in my chest, not as a pang of regret, but as a spark of defiant hope.

"I' m withdrawing my acceptance from Columbia," I stated, the words coming out surprisingly steady. "And I' m accepting Stanford' s offer."

Chloe gasped, a delighted sound. "Kiera! Are you serious? Oh my god, this is amazing! This is... this is you, Kiera! This is what you should have done all along!"

A small, genuine smile touched my lips, the first in what felt like an eternity. "I' m serious. I' m going to Stanford. I' m going to build my own life, my own dreams. Far away from him." Felix' s dismissive words about me being a "safety net" had sealed my fate, but not in the way he intended. He had pushed me out of his shadow, right into my own light.

"That' s my girl!" Chloe cheered, her face beaming. "When do you call them? Now? Call them now!"

I laughed, a fragile, shaky sound, but a laugh nonetheless. "I will. First thing in the morning." I thought of all the times Felix had casually dismissed my architectural sketches, his eyes glazing over as I spoke passionately about designing sustainable cities, sleek skyscrapers, and innovative public spaces. He' d barely listened, his focus always on his own next big deal, his next conquest. I' d always swallowed my disappointment, telling myself he was just busy, that he' d appreciate it eventually. But he wouldn' t. He never would. My passion was irrelevant to him; it didn't serve his narrative.

No more. I would build my own narrative. I would build towering structures that reached for the sky, and he, the man who thought I belonged in his shadow, would simply be a tiny man on the ground, looking up. The thought, sharp and sweet, filled me with a quiet, fierce determination.

"He won't even know what hit him," Chloe murmured, a triumphant glint in her eyes. "He'll be too busy preening with his 'prize.' And when he finally looks around for his loyal little shadow, you'll be gone. Light years away, shining brighter than he ever could."

"He will never find his 'safety net' again," I vowed, my voice firm, resolute. "Because there's nothing left to catch."

Kiera Case POV:

I ended the call with Chloe, her enthusiastic cheers still echoing in my ears, a stark contrast to the hollow ache in my chest. The burst of defiant resolve had been exhilarating, but now, alone in the quiet of my room, the weight of everything settled back in. My bed, still warm from Felix' s fleeting presence, felt like a trap. The scent of him, that musk and cologne, was everywhere, clinging to the sheets, to my hair, a ghost of intimacy that now felt like a violation.

I pressed my hands against my temples, trying to push away the images: Felix laughing with Bella, his dismissive words in French, the decade of my life I' d poured into him. It was too much, a cacophony of pain and regret. Stop it, Kiera. Stop thinking. I squeezed my eyes shut, rocking myself gently, desperate for the oblivion of sleep. It was still dark outside, the city lights a distant, shimmering glow against the inky sky.

Sleep, when it finally came, was fitful and shallow, plagued by nightmares of Felix's laughter and Bella' s triumphant smile. I thrashed, mumbling incoherent protests, until a sharp jolt woke me. My eyes flew open, heart pounding. The room was still dark, but a sliver of dawn was just beginning to paint the sky outside my window.

He wasn't there. Of course, he wasn' t.

A chilling wave of understanding washed over me. For years, every argument, every slight disagreement, every misunderstanding, had ended with Felix sending me a "goodnight" text, usually with a heart emoji, a silent peace offering. It was his way of ensuring I wouldn't stay mad, that I'd be waiting for him, ready to forgive, the next morning. It was a habit, a ritual, a tether. And now, it was broken. Not a single text, not a single call. Not even a casual, dismissive "Are you okay?" text. Nothing. The silence was louder than any argument. It confirmed everything. I truly was nothing to him.

A part of me, the old, needy Kiera, wanted to scream, to call him, to demand an explanation, to force him to acknowledge the years, the love, the betrayal. But a new Kiera, a fragile but growing sapling of self-respect, held me back. What would I say? "I know you think I'm just practice"? What would he say? Deny it? Laugh it off? It would only give him more power, more control. He would twist it, make me out to be the jealous, crazy ex. I knew his game, and I refuse to play. Not anymore.

My phone buzzed again. This time it was an alarm, reminding me of my Columbia orientation. I scoffed, a bitter, humorless sound. Columbia. My "shared dream." No, my future was now in California, a clean break, a fresh start.

Before I could even swing my legs out of bed, the door burst open. Not a gentle knock, not a polite entrance. It burst. My heart leaped into my throat, a scream catching there. Felix stood in the doorway, already dressed in crisp chinos and a designer polo shirt, a confident, slightly smug smirk on his face.

"Morning, sunshine," he chirped, striding in as if he owned the place, which, in a way, he did. This was the Decker guest house, after all, my childhood home next door. He' d always had a key, an unspoken right of passage. He still did. He didn't even bother to close the door behind him. He just sauntered over to my bed, his eyes raking over me in my sleep-rumpled t-shirt and shorts. A shiver of revulsion ran down my spine.

He flopped down beside me, leaning over, his face too close. "Rough night? You look a little... pouty." He reached out, his finger tracing my jawline, then pushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture, once intimate, now felt invasive, violating.

I flinched, pulling back abruptly. "Don' t," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion.

His brow furrowed slightly. "Don' t what? Don' t touch my girl?" He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that used to send shivers of delight through me. Now it just made my stomach clench. He reached for me again, his hand falling to my bare thigh, his thumb rubbing slow circles. "Or are you just playing hard to get? You know I love it when you do that, Kiera." His eyes held a predatory glint, a familiar challenge.

I pushed his hand away, harder this time. "Felix. Stop." My voice was still flat, but there was an edge to it, a warning.

He pulled back, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "Whoa. What' s up with you? Cranky this morning? Didn' t I give you enough last night?" He winked, a crude, dismissive gesture that made my blood run cold.

I stared at him, my gaze unwavering, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. My silence seemed to irritate him more than any outburst. His smirk faded, replaced by impatience.

"Come on, Kiera. Don' t be like this. I told you I had to go to the office early. It' s important. We' re talking about the Ramsey deal, after all." He said "Ramsey" with an almost exaggerated causalness, as if testing the waters.

I remained silent, my eyes fixed on a point just past his shoulder.

He scoffed. "Are you upset about her? Seriously? You know Bella' s just for show. Public relations. You' re... you' re Kiera. That' s different. That' s real." His voice was tinged with a patronizing tone, as if I were a child he needed to placate with empty words. A wave of bitterness washed over me. He really thought I was that naive, that stupid?

My lips almost formed a thin, bitter smile. Real. He called me "real" while his words in French echoed in my head, branding me as "practice." The sheer arrogance, the audacity of it, was breathtaking. I pushed myself up from the bed, avoiding his gaze, and headed towards the door.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, his voice sharper now, accustomed to my instant obedience.

I didn' t answer. I just kept walking, out of the room, down the stairs. The house felt huge, empty, echoing with the silence of my shattered illusions. He followed, his footsteps heavy on the polished wood. I noticed, with a detached sort of observation, that his patience for my moods seemed to have worn thin. Usually, he'd charm me out of it, or wait for me to come around. Now, he was just annoyed.

In the kitchen, I went straight for the fridge. "I had the caterers stock up on all your favorites for breakfast," he said, his voice attempting a conciliatory tone, but still edged with impatience. "Pancakes, bacon, those little fruit tarts you love. Come on, let' s eat."

I ignored the spread, pulling out a plain yogurt and some granola. My appetite had vanished somewhere between pratique and Bella.

He watched me, his face darkening. "Yogurt? Seriously? I went to all that trouble, Kiera."

I poured the granola into the yogurt, carefully avoiding his gaze. "I' m not hungry for pastries, Felix."

His hand slammed down on the counter, making me jump. The glass of orange juice next to it toppled, spilling a bright, sticky mess across the pristine white marble. "What is your problem, Kiera? Is it Bella? Are you jealous?" His voice was a low snarl, his eyes blazing.

I sighed, a long, weary sound that came from the depths of my soul. "Jealous of what, Felix?" I countered, finally meeting his furious gaze. My voice was calm, almost detached. "Of being a 'safety net' ?"

His eyes widened fractionally, a flicker of surprise, then suspicion. "What are you talking about? What 'safety net' ?" He scoffed, looking away, then back at me. "Don' t be ridiculous. You' re my best friend, Kiera. You' re like... family." The word "family" was laced with a chilling dismissal. He'd never used that word when describing our intimacy.

Family. My best friend. Just a few hours ago, I'd been his lover. Now I was "family," a term he used to conveniently distance himself, to deny the intimacy we'd shared, to invalidate my feelings. The casual cruelty of it made my body tremble, not with fear, but with a cold, righteous anger.

Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring his enraged face. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down my cheek. I hadn' t meant to cry, not in front of him, not now, when I needed to be strong.

He stared at me, his anger momentarily replaced by a flicker of bewilderment. "Kiera? What the hell? Why are you crying?" He sounded genuinely surprised, almost confused. He took a step towards me, reaching out a hesitant hand. "Hey, come on. Don' t cry. You know I hate it when you cry." He tried to pull me into a hug, a clumsy, forced gesture.

Just then, his phone buzzed. A vibrant, upbeat pop song blared from his pocket. He glanced down, his eyes widening slightly. He muttered a quick apology, pulling out his phone. His face immediately softened, a smile replacing his confused frown. "Hey, baby," he purred into the phone, his voice suddenly full of warmth and affection, a stark contrast to the anger he' d just directed at me. "Yeah, I just woke up. Just grabbing... um... coffee. Be there in twenty." He shot me a quick, dismissive glance, his eyes cold again. "Gotta go, Kiera. You know... work. Get over it."

Then he was gone, striding out of the kitchen, his voice already fading as he continued his sweet nothings to Bella. The heavy front door clicked shut, leaving me standing alone in the silent, messy kitchen, the spilled orange juice a bright, sticky stain on the marble.

My tears, which had paused, now started again, hot and heavy.