The bachelorette party with my best friends is in full swing, but nature calls, and no one’s canceling a trip to the ladies’ room. Katya and Sonya, one on each side, link arms with me as we stumble through the crowd, giggling like a trio of idiots for no reason at all, on a mission to powder our noses. But the line is so long that by the time we get in, it might be too late.
“Let’s use the staff bathroom,” I suggest to my friends. I work as a waitress at this club, so I know all the shortcuts.
It’s not my shift tonight, and we’re not supposed to go in there, but right now, I don’t see any other option.
Katya and I can barely keep our legs under us, and our tongues are tripping over themselves, though we’d never admit it. All thanks to the ridiculous number of cocktails we’ve downed in the last few hours.
When your almost-husband works as a bartender at a nightclub, no one’s keeping track of how much you drink. So, we didn’t bother with the math either—just enjoyed the night.
“Wait! Someone’s in there,” Sonya stops dead in her tracks halfway down the hall and starts listening intently.
In the staff changing room at the end of the corridor, the light is on, and there are faint sounds coming from inside. Katya, like some kind of ninja, tiptoes toward the door, while I grab her arm, trying to stop her. It’s none of our business who’s in there or what they’re doing. We shouldn’t even be here.
Oleg and I used to sneak into the changing room during breaks for a quick kiss away from prying eyes when we first started dating, so I don’t want her interrupting anyone. But this drunken freight train named Katya is unstoppable. So, Sonya and I have no choice but to shuffle along behind her, hoping no one spots us—because two tipsy fools sneaking down a hallway and a third trying to rein them in is quite the sight.
Katya peeks into the changing room and freezes. I’m so caught off guard by her sudden stop that I crash into her back. I’m about to snap at her when she spins around and clamps a hand over my mouth. To say my eyes nearly pop out of my head at her audacity would be an understatement.
“Alina, I’m so sorry,” she says, pulling her hand away from my face and stepping aside.
I stand there, completely clueless, until I peek into that cursed changing room myself. What I see is something I’ll never forget.
The hands that held me so tightly just half an hour ago are now touching someone else’s body. They lift the skirt of a blonde woman, gripping her so boldly, so shamelessly, that it makes my stomach churn. The lips that kissed me a thousand times are now pressed against a stranger’s neck. My fiancé pins this woman against the wall with such ferocity, as if he’s trying to break through it. And all I want is to wake up and realize this is just a nightmare. A horrible nightmare.
In the movies, when a girl catches her man with another woman, she runs off in tears. Seriously? How? I can’t move. My legs feel like they’re made of lead. I want to scream, but I can’t make a sound. I want to close my eyes, but I can’t even lower my eyelids.
Katya tugs at my arm to leave, but I don’t budge. I stand rooted to the spot, staring. The longer I look, the less I understand myself. Why aren’t I crying? Why aren’t I losing it? I don’t feel pain over the betrayal. All I feel is anger. Anger and hatred. And maybe disgust.
And that passionate blonde? She’s not such a stranger after all. Who would’ve thought? Natalie—the girlfriend of his best friend, the club’s administrator, and, coincidentally, the “friend” forced upon me who never stopped gushing about how lucky I was to have such a great fiancé.
Sensing our presence, the poor thing jumps down so fast she might’ve accidentally injured a vital part of her lover’s anatomy. Annoyed by her sudden move, he glances over his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” he spits out venomously, slowly pulling up his jeans.
Is he talking to me? Seriously? What am I doing here? What about, “Babe, it’s not what you think”? I always loved it in movies when men said that while their mistress was practically on top of them. But it seems my movie isn’t exactly Hollywood material.
I haven’t moved an inch from my spot, but when he starts walking toward me, my legs go into autopilot, backing me down the dark hallway. Now I’m ready to run, just so he doesn’t touch me. After what I’ve seen, I already feel like I need a shower—let alone endure his touch.
“Come on, let’s talk,” he says, grabbing my elbow and pulling me back toward the changing room.
His glassy stare and the stench of alcohol on his breath trigger my self-preservation instincts, and I dig my heels into the floor.
“We’ve got nothing left to talk about. Not now, not ever. The wedding’s off!” I yank my arm free from his grip. “I’m curious, though—am I the only blind fool here, or does Anton have no idea about your ‘close friendship’ with his girlfriend?”
What was that I said about self-preservation? Forget it.
“Don’t you dare say a word to him,” he snarls.
A sharp pain shoots through me as his hand clamps around my throat, finally tearing away the veil of naivety from my eyes. All I see now is the furious glare of a man who’s become a stranger to me, and Katya, desperately pounding on him with her fists, screaming for him to let me go.
I clutch at his hand, but I don’t have the strength to push him off. I open my mouth, hoping to draw a breath, but all that comes out is a choked rasp. My body is frozen. Only the traitorous tears streaming down my cheeks betray me.
Sonya comes running down the hallway, dragging our security guard, Stas, behind her. At that moment, the grip on my throat loosens, and I collapse onto the dirty floor, gasping for air.
“We’ll talk at home,” he throws out arrogantly before walking away.
Shaken but suddenly sober, we rush toward the club’s exit, abandoning the celebration of a marriage that will never happen.
I burst outside and double over, hands on my knees. I gulp in the fresh air greedily. Each deep breath slowly calms my racing heart. The wind slaps my face mercilessly, stinging my cheeks where tears still fall. I touch my neck, still feeling the pressure of those hands—hands that are no longer familiar.
“We need to get out of here before he comes after us,” Sonya says, sprinting toward the line of taxis waiting along the curb for customers.
My friend tries to convince me to go straight to my parents’ place, but I want to grab my things from the apartment I shared with Oleg. I want to do it now, while he’s still at the club, because I don’t know when I’ll get another chance.
I don’t need anything I bought for our life together. He can choke on those plates and mugs for all I care, but I’m taking my clothes.
With trembling hands, I turn the key in the lock and open the door. I’d grown to love this little cozy apartment, which I’d considered my home, but now it feels like a cage.
I immediately grab a suitcase and start tossing in clothes from the shelves, shoes, and makeup. I mentally pat myself on the back for my love of organization—it makes finding everything so much easier. Not that there’s much room for clutter in a one-bedroom apartment, but it still works in my favor.
One suitcase and two bags—that’s all I’ve got. Not much to show for the year we lived together.
My eyes catch on the nightstand he proudly calls his “bar,” where he stores expensive liquor to show off to his friends.
“Let’s pour it all out,” I say to the girls, opening the cabinet doors.
Katya lets out a low whistle, while Sonya gets right to work. She deftly unscrews the caps and pours the fiery liquid down the sink. You can tell she’s got no love for alcohol. Once the deed is done, we grab the bags and head to my parents’ house.
“You know he’s not going to leave you alone, right?” Katya says, squeezing my hand. “I’m sorry, but your relationship with him is toxic. If you forgive him for this, there’s no turning back.”
I’m taken aback by her words. She’s never commented on my relationship with Oleg before, though she never hid her dislike for him. But she’s right—he’ll turn my life into a living hell if I stay in this city.
So, I pull out my phone and text Marina:
“Hey. Sorry it’s late. Is there still a spot open for me?”