A Bitter Anniversary Breakup

SLOANE

“Don’t you dare walk out on me, Sloane! This is all your fault!” Preston barks, his voice cracking like a whip across the sprawling layout of my penthouse.

I turn around just in time to see his eyes bulging, an absolute, unhinged rage burning in their blue depths. His face is flushed, his expensive tuxedo jacket riding up on his shoulders as he breathes heavily through his nose. He looks completely ridiculous, a grown man throwing a catastrophic tantrum in the middle of my living room. The very last thing I want to do tonight is stand here and listen to him act like a fucking child.

Without a word, I turn my back on him, grab the heavy chrome door handle, and cross the threshold, stepping out onto the cold balcony. The chill of the night air immediately bites at my bare arms, but it’s a welcome relief from the suffocating atmosphere inside. Before I can take another step toward the railing, I hear his heavy footsteps stomping hard and fast against the hardwood floors behind me. The glass door slides open, and instantly, the heavy, overpowering scent of his expensive cologne wafts into my nostrils. It’s a scent that used to make my heart flutter, but tonight, it just makes my stomach churn with pure nausea and irritation.

“Go away, Preston. I have absolutely nothing left to say to you,” I mutter, closing my eyes and letting the cold wind brush against my heated skin. The sun has long since set, and the sky is a sprawling canvas of darkening clouds, brewing with an intensity that perfectly matches the furious storm inside my chest. It casts an ominous, heavy shadow over the city skyline, and more importantly, over everything I’ve foolishly believed in for the past three years.

Preston and I met at a suffocatingly lavish charity fundraiser three years ago. It certainly wasn’t love at first sight, not by a long shot. It was a bond that was heavily fostered, manipulated, and kept alive solely by our wealthy parents’ rigid social expectations. His father, Warren Sterling, practically owns half the city, his name slapped across several massive corporate businesses scattered all over the state and beyond. My father’s portfolio is just as intimidating. Preston is the golden boy, blindly handed the reins to his family’s luxury hotels and elite resorts. Sometimes, I genuinely feel like the unearned wealth and fame have completely rotted his brain. He has always been a spoiled, entitled brat. I was just crazy enough, and perhaps naive enough, to stick by him, making endless pathetic excuses for his behavior every single time his nasty demons surfaced. Tonight, however, the illusion is completely shattered. This golden cage is broken.

“You don’t mean that, babe. You can’t possibly ask me to leave right now,” his voice drops, suddenly trying to adopt that sickeningly sober, manipulative tone. I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s trying to crawl through the massive defensive walls I’ve suddenly erected, just like he does each and every time we have an explosive fight and I finally turn my back on his bullshit.

I whip around, my heels clicking sharply against the balcony tiles. “I had a brutally long day at the office, Preston! Being a rookie financial consultant among people who have been crushing it in this field since before I was even born is no walk in the park. I work sixty hours a week. I bust my ass analyzing spreadsheets until my eyes bleed, just to prove I deserve to be there. I—”

“Because you chose to go through all of that pointless misery when you could just work with me or your dad!” he snaps, cutting me off with a deeply disapproving, mocking tone. He scoffs bitterly, throwing his hands in the air. “I told you a hundred times, Sloane! I have the absolute perfect spot for you in one of the luxury resorts. A corner office. You can stay right here with me, or go to the properties in Australia, London—anywhere you want!”

“I don’t want to work for you! And I don’t want to work for my father!” I fire back, pure indignation lacing every single word. “I am not a fucking charity case, Preston!”

He sneers, a highly punchable look of pure arrogance twisting his handsome features. “But you’re slaving away in that mediocre corporate firm for absolute pennies! You’re making yourself look ridiculous, playing the independent working girl when you don't have to!”

God, how did we get here? How did I endure this absolute disrespect for three whole years?

“I love my job,” I state, my voice dropping to a dangerous, steady whisper. “I love being a financial consultant. And I am going to earn every single spot, every single promotion, and every single benefit that comes with this career through my own actual merit. I am entirely sick to my stomach of you constantly breathing down my neck at every chance you get, intentionally belittling my independence and mocking my hard work.”

“That’s not true and you know it! I love you, and I want what’s best for you, babe!” he argues, though there is no love in his aggressive posture.

I tilt my neck, tossing him a lethal glare. “Oh, really? You think that’s what love looks like?”

I pause, my chest heaving, watching him suck in a defensive breath. God, I cannot fathom how I have put up with this deeply toxic man for this long. I should have dumped his ass the very second I noticed the first glaring red flag.

“You constantly question my decisions. You openly doubt my strength in front of our friends. You walk all over my emotions whenever it suits your narrative,” I step closer, refusing to back down, staring directly into his blue eyes. “I was actually looking forward to spending tonight with the man I thought I loved. Today was supposed to be our third anniversary! But you completely ruined it with your despicable, arrogant attitude. You treated me like a helpless, fat child in the middle of a crowded, upscale restaurant!”

The memory of it flashes through my mind, making my blood boil all over again. We were sitting in a Michelin-star dining room, surrounded by high society. When I ordered the cream lobster bisque, he literally flagged down the waiter, canceled my order, and loudly declared I would be having a dry salad instead.

“I want what’s best for you, Sloane! Having a heavy cream lobster bisque would definitely ruin your physical shape!” he defends himself instantly, not an ounce of regret in his tone.

Bloody hell. I stare at him, absolutely astounded by his audacity.

“Really? You care about my body size more than I do? You think you have the right to publicly dictate what goes into my mouth?”

“It sure looks like that to me!” he yells, taking a step forward. “Because if you actually cared even one bit about how you looked next to me, you wouldn’t dare to even glance at a menu item with that many calories!”

I laugh. I don't just chuckle; a loud, completely unhinged sound of pure disbelief erupts from my belly, spills through my lipstick-coated lips, and echoes loudly in the open, cold air of the balcony. It is the sound of my final thread of patience snapping in two.

“Get out, Preston. Get the fuck out of my apartment right now, or I will be forced to call building security and have them physically drag you out to the street.”

Instead of retreating, he narrows the gap between us. He stalks closer, peering down at my face. A desperate smirk plays across his lips, a pathetic attempt to mask the sudden realization that I am entirely serious.

“You’ll do no such thing, babe,” he murmurs, trying to sound dark and commanding.

The absolute nerve of this man to think he still possesses some sort of magical control over my brain! Hasn’t he learned his lesson already? When is he going to realize that I am not one of his submissive employees?

“You have exactly five minutes to get your ass into that elevator, Preston,” I tell him, my voice dangerously calm. “And for your own sake, I highly suggest you stay the hell away from me.”

He stills for a moment. I can clearly gauge the sheer disbelief swimming in his gaze. For a second, he just stares at me. Then, he lets out a low, patronizing chuckle, a poor and flimsy attempt at masking the emotion I can so easily decipher behind his cocky facade. Fear. He’s terrified that I’m actually slipping out of his grasp.

“Are you seriously breaking up with me on our anniversary?” he asks, shaking his head. “A night we should be celebrating our love? A night I’ve been anticipating so I could finally peel this expensive dress off your body? What happened at the restaurant was absolutely nothing. Besides, I just gave you the perfect gift to make up for whatever imaginary slight you think I committed.”

I cast a withering, disgusted glance down at my wrist. “Don’t be silly, Preston! I explicitly told you at the table that I wasn’t interested in your damn hush-money gift!”

“But it looks so good on you. Don’t you think so, hmm?”

Preston leans in forcefully, raising his large hands to aggressively cup my face. His grip is tight, his fingers digging into my jawline so I can’t turn away. His thumb roughly strokes my bottom lip. In the past, this kind of assertive touch might have sent a familiar thrill through my veins, a toxic addiction I mistook for passion. But tonight, there is no thrill. Instead, a dark, heavy sense of foreboding violently twists my insides. Every alarm bell in my head is screaming at me.

I try to step back, attempting to distance myself from his suffocating presence, but his strong, unrelenting grasp keeps me firmly locked in place. He yanks me closer, and our lips collide in a forceful, unexpected physical clash.

A fresh, blinding wave of absolute anger sweeps through my entire body. He nips hard at my bottom lip, his mouth pressing aggressively against mine. He pushes his tongue against the seam of my lips, trying to force his way in, trying to physically dominate me into submission right here on the balcony. There is no romance in it; it is pure, arrogant entitlement.

I shove my hands hard against his chest, breaking the contact with a gasp of revulsion.

“You son of a bitch!” I seethe, my voice raw with fury.

Without even thinking, I pull my arm back and strike him across the face with all the physical strength I can possibly muster. The sharp, deafening crack of my palm colliding with his cheekbone echoes sharply against the glass windows of the penthouse. My hand instantly stings with a hot, burning pain, but the sheer satisfaction of the impact courses through my veins.

“You make me absolutely sick!” I spit at him, breathing heavily.

Preston stumbles back half a step. He reaches up, slowly massaging the red mark blooming on his jaw with his palm. And then, terrifyingly, he laughs. It’s a dark, arrogant sound brimming with utter confidence.

“You need me, baby doll,” he taunts, his eyes flashing with a predatory gleam. “I can see your pupils dilating. Your body is still slightly leaning towards me. Don’t try to act all strict and independent with me. Admit it. You can't survive without me.”

The anger skyrockets, wrapping around my throat and threatening to choke me. He really believes I am entirely helpless.

“You’re right about one thing, Preston,” I say, my voice trembling with adrenaline. “I am going to be celebrating tonight. But for an entirely different reason.”

I look down at my wrist. My fingers fumble violently with the tiny clasp of the diamond bracelet he had forcefully slid onto my wrist during our argument at the restaurant. I yank it free, the platinum chain digging into my skin for a split second before coming loose. I step forward and dump the ridiculously expensive jewelry directly into the front breast pocket of his tailored tuxedo.

“I’ve lied to myself over and over again, blindly believing you’d eventually stop being an arrogant asshole and treat me the way I deserve to be treated—with basic respect and utter devotion. When you hurt me the first time, I forgave you before you even offered a fake apology. And what did you do? Huh?! You completely wore me down. You turned me into this weak, pathetic woman who can barely stare at her own reflection in the mirror without shedding a tear. I am done.”

For a second, the arrogant smirk vanishes. “Babe, we can fix this. Don’t give up on us, please.”

I genuinely want to laugh in his face. Give up on us? What the hell is he even talking about? I gave up on this dead-end relationship a long time ago. I’ve just been too much of a coward to actually walk away.

I turn on my heel, leaving him standing in the cold, and head straight through the living room toward the private elevator doors that lead right down to the main lobby. He follows closely behind me, his silence heavy and thick.

“Goodbye, Preston,” I say firmly, thumbing the elevator call button with aggressive force. “I hope I never have to see your face again.”

The metal doors slide open. He steps into the confined, mirrored space, turning to face me. He throws me one last lingering, deeply calculating glance before the doors slowly slide shut, completely severing him from my space.

The moment the loud hum of the elevator fades, the deafening, suffocating silence of my luxury penthouse hits me like a physical blow. I stand there in the grand foyer, the adrenaline slowly draining from my trembling muscles. I wait for my heart to completely shatter into tiny, unrecognizable pieces. It’s supposed to, right? I mean, I spent three years of my life loving this man. We had extensive plans. We mapped out dreams, vacations, and social events. There were days I legitimately couldn’t go to bed without hearing his voice through the phone. There were moments I wanted nothing more than to bask in his touch and linger safely in his arms. God! I trusted in our supposed love so much that I almost completely lost my own identity.

But as I kick off my painful designer heels, the tears don't come. Instead, I feel the terrifying, crushing weight of the social fallout that is about to drop on my head.

My dad is going to give me an absolute earful. My mom adores Preston and constantly brags about his wealth to her country club friends. It’s not going to be easy dealing with them. I know Preston's parents will be devastated, or more accurately, furious that their golden boy was dumped. Everyone in our elite family circle has been rooting for a massive, heavily publicized merger wedding. The high society circles will gossip about us relentlessly. The whispering, the pointed stares, the fake pity—it’s going to be a waking nightmare.

Seeking some desperate comfort, I drag my tired feet across the plush rug and make my way to the sleek minibar in the corner of the living room. I grab a heavy crystal tumbler and uncap a bottle of aged scotch. I pour a generous amount, simply watching the liquid amber swirl against the glass. I bring it to my lips, letting the peppery, burning liquid sizzle down my dry throat. The burn is grounding.

As I lean heavily against the marble counter, my phone violently vibrates against the wood.

The bright caller ID flashes with my best friend’s name. Chloe.

It’s Friday night, which means she’s definitely out at some loud bar downtown. I should tell her. I should tell her I finally took her advice and cut things off with the arrogant son of a bitch. Chloe absolutely hates Preston’s guts; they have always been at each other’s throats from day one. My lips twitch into a small, exhausted smile as I slowly realize that I at least have one fiercely loyal person in my corner.

I answer the call after the third ring, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Are you at his ridiculous penthouse or yours?” Chloe drawls loudly over the line, her voice light and teasing with humor.

I swirl the amber liquid in my tall glass, tightening my grip on the cool crystal. “I’m at mine.”

“Where is he? Tell me everything! What did he say when he saw that knee-jerking, ridiculously expensive red lingerie you bought last week? Did he lose his mind?”

My mind briefly wanders to the red microfiber piece still hanging untouched in my massive walk-in closet. I never even got the chance to put it on.

“Sloane? You there?”

I blink, staring blankly at the dark city view outside the window. “I—I'll call you in the morning, girl. I have to reply to a few corporate emails and work on this massive file my Team Lead dropped on my desk today. It’s absolutely due tomorrow.”

“Work? Are you insane? Today is supposed to be your huge three-year dating anniversary! What the hell is going on? Are you alright, babe?”

The deep vulnerability finally cracks my chest open. The tears I thought wouldn't come suddenly prick the corners of my eyes. My knuckles turn white as my grip on the glass tightens.

“Preston and I... we broke up,” I confess, my voice trembling in the empty room. “I told him to get out. I couldn’t bear being with him for another second, Chloe. I guess you were right about him all along. He was just slowly breaking me apart. All that’s left is a deep sense of total regret and emotional scars.”

Chloe immediately laughs loudly into the speaker, completely unfiltered. “Fucking finally, girl! Oh my god, it is about damn time! I wish to god I could have been there to see the look on his stupid, arrogant face!”

I let out a shaky breath, waiting for her to settle down and ask me if I’m genuinely okay. I need her to tell me that I’ll survive the massive social hurricane that is coming tomorrow.

But before she can utter another word, the phone line suddenly clicks. A strange static fills the speaker.

Then, right before the line goes completely dead, a sound reverberates through the earpiece. It’s a laugh. But it’s not Chloe’s bright, loud cackle. It is a low, dark, unsettlingly masculine chuckle. It sounds deeply mocking, vibrating right against my eardrum.

The call abruptly drops.

I pull the phone away from my ear, staring blindly at the dark screen. My heart hammers painfully against my ribs. A sudden, icy wave of paranoia creeps directly into my bloodstream. What the hell was that? Who was laughing? Why did it sound so sinister?

In the blink of an eye, a horrific, intrusive image flashes into my exhausted brain. I suddenly picture Chloe and Preston together, laughing at me behind my back in some dark room. No. Fuck! I violently shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. I need to get a damn grip. My brain is just torturing me. Chloe is my best friend; she has hated Preston since the day they met. I am just letting the horrid tension of modern relationships and paranoid social media horror stories infect my mind. I tilt my head back and gulp the entire remaining contents of the glass, wincing as the harsh fire of the scotch hits my stomach.

By the time the furious anger has simmered down into a dull, throbbing ache, it’s midnight. Absolute physical and emotional exhaustion has completely taken over my body.

I am sitting in my dark study, the only light coming from the streetlamps below. I push my sleek work laptop away and lay my heavy head down on the polished dark wood of my study desk. I close my eyes, desperate to stop my overheated brain from relentlessly replaying the traumatic events of the night. The lobster bisque. The forceful kiss. The slap. The unsettling laugh on the phone.

Suddenly, the pitch-black room is illuminated by a stark, harsh white glow.

My phone, resting near my elbow, vibrates loudly. A text message notification pops up on the lock screen.

Without raising my heavy head, I search the desk blindly with my fingers. I grab the cold metal device, dragging it close to my face to read whatever is glowing on the screen.

It’s from Preston.

*I hope you realize your mistake soon, babe.*

My breath completely hitches in my throat. My fingers go numb, and I let the heavy phone simply drop from my grasp. It clatters loudly onto the floor, the screen facing up, continuing to glow like a sinister warning in the dark room.

A heavy, suffocating knot forms tightly in my chest. The first tear finally breaks free, sliding down my cheek and hitting the dark mahogany wood of my desk with a soft tap. I squeeze my eyes shut as the reality of my situation truly sets in. Knowing deep down in my heart how vindictive and highly manipulative Preston’s character is, this isn't just a bitter text from a dumped ex. It is a promise. He has the money, the social power, and the sheer arrogance to make sure I suffer. He is going to aggressively retaliate. He is going to make my life incredibly, dangerously complicated, and that realization terrifies me infinitely more than the actual thought of losing him.