"We Decided You're Not My Type, So We're Done," My Girlfriend Announced In Front Of He

Описание: "We Decided You're Not My Type, So We're Done," My Girlfriend Announced In Front Of He
Priya’s eyes flicked nervously toward Tessa before she muttered, “Dylan… Dylan Reed. You know, the guy from the launch party last month.”

My stomach dropped. Of course. Dylan Reed—the charming, polished entrepreneur who made every woman in the room turn her head. The kind of man whose confidence was as carefully curated as his wardrobe. And now, apparently, he had been auditioning to replace me in my own life.

Tessa didn’t flinch. She met my gaze with that calm, clinical detachment she’d perfected over years of running her social media empire. “Yes. Dylan. I like him, Ethan. I’m… done with us.”

Done with us. Eight years, two apartments, countless late nights building our careers, watching sitcom reruns in our tiny living room—and suddenly it was over because some man with a nice car and designer cologne made her pulse quicken.

I looked around at the circle of women who’d assembled like a jury. Their faces were smug, proud, almost gleeful at my humiliation. Gia was the ringleader, of course, framing the narrative so perfectly I could almost admire the audacity if I weren’t so furious. Mallory looked like she was enjoying a private victory, as if she’d placed bets on how quickly my marriage would collapse. Priya… well, Priya was already documenting it for the ‘Gram, probably live-streaming my downfall while sipping her latte.

I leaned back slowly, letting the café’s ambient noise wash over me. Hipsters clattered on keyboards, baristas shouted orders, and for a moment, I wondered if they could sense the personal apocalypse unfolding in their midst.

“And what am I supposed to do?” I asked, voice calm but loaded. “Applaud? Thank you for the heads-up? Or should I just… leave while you all cheer?”

Tessa’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Ethan, you’re overreacting. It’s not about anyone cheering—it’s about moving on.”

Moving on. The words felt like molten iron in my chest. I wanted to scream, to make the floor shake, to remind her—and all of them—that a marriage isn’t a boardroom pitch to be voted on.

“Move on?” I repeated, slow, deliberate. “So all these months, the lies, the late nights, the dinners I cooked, the bills I covered, the apartment I chose because you liked the view… that was just background noise? Just rehearsal?”

The table went quiet. Even the barista paused mid-pour, sensing the tension. Tessa opened her mouth, then closed it. Gia fidgeted, Mallory bit her lip, Priya’s phone lowered slowly.

I inhaled, letting the anger settle into something sharper—something I could control. “You know,” I said finally, my voice measured, “I always thought losing your wife would be private. Turns out, it’s a spectator sport. And you—” I gestured at the three of them, “you’re the cheerleaders.”

Tessa’s hand twitched. Dylan’s shadow might have been lurking in her heart, but it hadn’t yet claimed her pride. And I knew, deep down, that no social media stunt, no carefully crafted post, could erase the foundation we’d built—no matter how cracked it seemed now.

I pushed my chair back, sliding across the floor in one smooth motion. “Enjoy your coffee,” I said, standing. “Because the real show? It’s just getting started.”

And with that, I walked out, leaving their shocked faces and the whisper of my fury behind.


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