Corin drank herself stupid the night she found out.

You were with a man.

You weren’t going to any of her shows anymore, you didn’t dress the same. You were with a man who she knew wouldn’t know how to please you; you didn’t let go easy, no, you took at least an hour.

No man had that kind of stamina!

However, that wasn’t Corin’s only worry. She knew, she was convinced you loved her. You had to, you wouldn’t have done all that with her if you didn’t, right?

You loved her. You had to.

She was in her apartment when she saw it.

She was a little hungover, eating a piece of buttered toast and downing the cup of herbal tea you had put her on to. She was reading the Newspaper when she found the engagement announcement.

You were set to marry some rich son of a politician. Corin dropped her mug, staining the paper.

Your name, next to his, soon to be Mrs. Williams. It should’ve been her name you took. It should’ve been Mrs. Rossi.

Meanwhile, across the city, in Manhattan, on the Upper East Side, you were looking at the same paper.

You were sitting at the breakfast table in your soon-to-be-husband’s luxury apartment, dressed in a silk camisole Charlie had bought you. It was pale blue, a colour you hated, and a size too small.

Charlie came out of the bedroom, shirtless and satisfied. He walked up behind you, putting a hand on your shoulder. “You make breakfast, honey?” He asked, sitting down and grabbing the newspaper from your hands.

He smacked your ass as you got up to make him breakfast, and you grit your teeth.

“I was thinkin’ pancakes?” The words were phrased as a question, but you knew it was a command.

On the other side of the city, Corin was feeling just as bad and just as angry. She was getting ready for her shift.