Chapter 1

On the eve of the wedding, Andrew Coleman finally posted on Instagram—because I kept pushing him to.

The caption read: [If it's her, I don't care if she's dirty.]

The way people looked at me grew stranger by the day, until I overheard a conversation in the company break room.

"Did you see Mr. Coleman's Instagram? Damn, I can't believe Charlotte's such a bitch, doing all that stuff."

"I saw it. Charlotte must be desperate—she'll take any man, no matter the age. That old guy looked like he was pushing ninety."

"And that PowerPoint had dozens of slides. I couldn't even count how many men were in it. But Mr. Coleman still wants to marry her, knowing she's not clean—that's true love, I guess?"

I felt like I'd been dropped into an ice cellar. I snatched a girl's phone and opened her Instagram.

What I saw was Andrew's PowerPoint. And in it, the so-called old men I was accused of being a mistress to weren't strangers at all—they were my dad and my grandfather. And the client was my brother.

*****

The air felt awkward and heavy with silence. A woman, standing nearby, snatched up her phone and hurried off.

I just stood there, frozen, unable to erase the image I had just seen on that screen.

The PowerPoint was simple but detailed, filled with captions and timelines, accusing me of living a chaotic private life, worshipping money, and having no bottom line. It basically said I'd do anything as long as the price was high enough.

And the only person blocked from that Instagram account was me.

I had been slandered by my boyfriend of six years, the man I was about to marry.

Before I could even text Andrew Coleman to confront him, his message popped up first: [I'm taking Emily on a trip for a couple of days. We'll talk about the wedding later.]

Emily Dawson, the student he'd been sponsoring for four years, had just graduated this year. Andrew said he wanted to treat her a little, which was why he hadn't been home much lately.

We had fought countless times because of Emily. In the end, every argument circled back to the same few lines.

He snapped, "Charlotte, what exactly do you want from me? Can you stop assuming the worst about everyone? Emily's just someone I'm sponsoring, nothing more than a friend.

"Stop getting jealous over nothing. I don't know what's going on in your head. She just graduated, she's fragile, and has no one to rely on. What's wrong with me helping her out?"

"You act like a bitter housewife every day. You've lost all your spark. Being with you is embarrassing. Why don't you try learning from Emily for once?"

I felt hollow. I couldn't understand how someone I'd loved for six years had turned into this.

I opened his Instagram—still no sign of that PowerPoint.

The post pinned at the top was from three days ago. The caption read: [If it's her, I don't care if she's dirty.] The photo was of me, drunk and sprawled on the couch, my back to the camera.

Other than that, there was nothing about me on his Instagram.

For days, I'd been buried in wedding planning, so busy I barely had time to breathe, let alone check my phone. Of course, I hadn't seen that post.

I scrolled down, and all I saw was Emily.

[Took her skiing. She's so clumsy, still can't get the hang of it.]

[I wanted to take her to Yuritaon to see the roses, but the visa didn't come through. We had no choice but to head to Wodekin first.]

[Emily woke me up at midnight, craving lobster. My hands hurt from peeling so many, but she's sweet—she even tried to blow on my fingers to cool them down.]

I could only laugh at how ridiculous it all was.

Six years together, and I had never appeared on his Instagram except for one post I'd begged him to make. And even that one carried a caption that made me sick.

So Andrew could post on Instagram; he just wouldn't post anything about me.

My phone went dark automatically. I took a deep breath, forced my emotions back down, and decided to go home and cancel the wedding first.

I pushed open the front door. The place felt cold and deserted. I looked around, expecting to see my familiar little cat, but it was nowhere to be found.

It was strange. Chubby usually came running to greet me.

Still puzzled, I set down my bag. That's when I suddenly heard movement in the bathroom. "Andrew, I got water all over myself. This cat is so annoying."

My stomach dropped. I rushed over.

Emily was standing by the bathtub, looking all dainty and helpless. Andrew was beside her, carefully wiping the water off her with a towel.

They both turned when they heard me.

"Oh, Charlotte, you're back," Emily said. She ducked behind him, a flicker of guilt on her face.

I looked down. The floor was splattered with water. Cat hair clung to the edge of the tub. A horrible answer started forming in my mind—one I didn't want to believe.

I lunged forward, shoving them aside, my hands trembling.

In the bathtub, my small cat floated limply, not moving at all.

It was my Chubby.