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Jason relaxed his grip. The empty bottle clattered and rolled away.
I scrambled for it, then carefully gathered the scattered tablets back into the bottle.
The neighbors had already left quietly, sparing a little dignity. He watched me with contempt.
"I never knew you were this disgusting."
"Claire Moon."
"You killed your sister."
"You brought this on yourself."
"You deserve to suffer."
I didn't lift my head, continuing to pick up the pills.
I could guess when Jason had found out.
I never told him about the knot in my heart.
But after we were engaged, he started dropping hints — he wanted me to take him to meet my family.
My relationship with my mother had always been fraught since my childhood, and she had never liked me.
Then Jason stopped mentioning it. A week before, he vanished for a day. When he returned, his attitude changed.
Three days ago, he brought his assistant home.
They were tangled on the sofa.
I was a light sleeper and the noise downstairs woke me. I thought he was working late.
I was about to ask if he was hungry when the scene froze me in place.
His assistant was beautiful. Her hair spilled over his chest as she leaned in to kiss him.
Jason didn't pull away, letting her leave a neat kiss on his face.
The he pulled her into his arms.
The assistant let out a coy, triumphant little sound: "Don't do this, Jason. Your girlfriend's right here."
Her tone betrayed delight.
The house reeked of alcohol. I had been telling myself that the wine smell was nothing, my little self-deceptions.
But Jason looked at me. His eyes landed on my face with scorn, like a knife.
"Ignore her."
"She's not worth it."
"If it weren't for that face…"
I didn't hear the rest. Somatic symptoms hit me fast—nausea, a burning rising up from my gut.
I bolted to the bathroom, gagging over the toilet, tears streaming.
In that moment, a sentence from the day we met flashed in my mind: Don't cry. Tears ruin your beauty.
When I could not vomit anymore, Jason stood in the doorway. His words were frozen of warmth.
"Can't take it?"
"But the worst—"
"Isn't it you?"
