“You wouldn’t quit willingly,” Adam said, his voice steady and almost gentle — the kind of tone people use when they think they’re doing something merciful. “So I had to do what I had to do.”

The words didn’t sink in right away. You blinked, waiting for him to laugh, to tell you it was a joke. But he didn’t.

Your heart sank. He’d done it — shut down your business. The small, hand-built company you had poured yourself into for years. Every late night hunched over your laptop, every skipped meal, every risk you took instead of sleeping. Gone. Deleted with a few phone calls.

Because he could.

Adam wasn’t always like this. Back in college, you’d both been broke — sharing cheap coffee and daydreams in the library, splitting sandwiches because neither of you could afford two. He used to laugh easily, talk softly, listen. You were friends long before you were anything else.

Then his uncle died — some distant relative he barely remembered — and left him everything. A fortune, an estate, a life rewritten overnight. And for a while, you were proud of him. You saw him step into confidence, finally breathe without worrying about money. You told yourself that’s what love does — it celebrates the other person’s rise.

But Adam didn’t rise. He transformed.

He traded in his thrift store sweaters for tailored coats, his bike for a luxury car that purred when it drove. He started speaking like someone who expected the world to agree with him. When he finally asked you out, you said yes — out of nostalgia, out of hope,

The first few months were beautiful. He spoiled you with things you’d never had: dinners that cost more than your week’s groceries, a gold necklace you didn’t have the courage to wear, hotel rooms overlooking skylines you didn’t belong to. You told yourself it was harmless — that he just wanted to share what he had.

But the gifts came with invisible strings.

When you insisted on paying for something — coffee, gas, even your half of dinner — he’d take your hand, smile, and say, “Don’t be ridiculous. I like taking care of you.”

When you spent a night working late on your business, he’d show up with takeout and pout, “You’d rather stare at your laptop than me?”

When you mentioned you couldn’t keep up with classes and your start-up at the same time, he’d offer to “help” — by paying your tuition so you could “focus on what matters.”

It sounded sweet, but it didn’t feel that way.

The day he asked you to move in, you almost said yes. The apartment was stunning — . But it was far from everything you knew. Too far from campus, too far from the café where you worked, too far from your life. You said no. You told him you needed space, routine, roots.

He smiled, said he understood, but the light in his eyes went cold.

A few weeks later, he offered to invest in your small business. Said he believed in you. You wanted to believe that was love — that he saw what you saw. You told him everything: your ideas, your plans, the designs you’d kept secret.

You didn’t realize he was building something of his own — with your blueprints.

When you found out, you confronted him.

“Yes, I stole your ideas,” he snapped, his voice cracking just enough to sound sincere. “But listen! Your business was failing — your ideas weren’t. I— wait, where are you going?”

You turned away, every step heavy. His hand caught your arm. That was the last straw.

That night, you left. No screaming, no crying — just silence. You packed a bag, turned off your phone, and went back to the one place that felt real: your job at the campus café. The hiss of the espresso machine, the smell of coffee grounds —

Two weeks passed. You didn’t hear from him.

Until you did.

He walked into the café one slow afternoon, dressed like he’d stepped out of a magazine. No coffee, no order — just a bouquet of roses and those same steady

He didn’t speak. Just sat in the corner, watching you.

And somehow, that silence was louder than every apology he’d ever given.