Chapter 3 — The Breaking Point

Claire

I stared at my phone, the screen glowing with an Instagram post uploaded six minutes ago. There they were, Leo and Sophia, seated at a café that looked like something out of a postcard—wrought-iron tables, tiny cups of espresso, and the Eiffel Tower shimmering smugly in the background. Sophia’s caption read: *“Paris is always a good idea… but so is love 💕✨ #FreshStarts #LivingMyBestLife.”*

My fingers clenched around the phone so tightly I thought I might crush it. The image blurred as my eyes filled with angry, humiliated tears. How dare he? How dare *they*? This wasn’t just a stupid Instagram post—it was a declaration. A neon sign flashing in the digital universe: *Claire Bennett is a fool.*

I threw the phone onto the couch, where it landed face down with a muted thud. For a moment, I stood frozen, my chest heaving. I wanted to leave it there, pretend it didn’t matter. But it did matter. That image was already seared into my brain. Leo’s easy, confident smile. Sophia’s perfect platinum hair catching the Parisian sunlight. The Eiffel Tower looming behind them like some smug witness to my humiliation.

I paced the living room, my bare feet brushing against the crinkling wrapping paper of unopened wedding gifts. The scent of wilting roses from the bouquet—*my bouquet*—lingered in the air, a cloying reminder of the day that wasn’t. The fridge hummed softly, likely preserving the half-eaten wedding cake Melissa had insisted we save for some misguided reason involving closure. It had been a week since the altar debacle, but the humiliation clung to me like an ill-fitting dress I couldn’t take off.

“Take a hot bath and breathe through it,” Melissa had suggested with her usual calm logic. My sister, Emily, had been more direct: “Claire, he’s a garbage person. You need to move on.”

Move on? How could I even think of moving on when Leo was out there gallivanting across Europe with *my money*? Oh yes, *my money*. That’s what made this betrayal unbearable. It wasn’t just that he’d left me at the altar surrounded by a pitying crowd and a very apologetic caterer. No, Leo had drained our joint savings account just days before the wedding. Months of careful planning, budgeting, and sacrifices—all gone. The money I’d saved for a house, for a future, for *us*, now funding his romantic escapades with Sophia Delgado, Instagram influencer extraordinaire.

I stopped pacing, my eyes flicking toward the phone, still lying face down on the couch. I knew what I’d see if I picked it up. More likes. More comments. More people cheering for their so-called *fresh start*. It was absurd. How could everything be unraveling for me while Leo played the role of doting boyfriend in a picture-perfect Parisian fantasy?

I sank onto the couch, my hands trembling as I picked up the phone again. The comments bubbled up under Sophia’s caption like some cruel, mocking chorus.

*“So happy for you two!”*

*“Couple goals!”*

*“Paris looks amazing! Love wins!”*

A bitter laugh escaped my throat, sharp and jagged. *Love wins?* No, love hadn’t won here. Fraud and betrayal were the real winners of this story. And I wasn’t about to let them live happily ever after.

For a moment, I considered typing something scathing in the comments section, like: *“Enjoy Paris with my savings, Leo! Hope the croissants taste like guilt!”* But no. That would accomplish nothing except making me look petty. And I didn’t want to be petty. I wanted justice.

I wanted my money back.

I wanted my dignity back.

And I wanted Leo Carter to know that I wasn’t some doormat he could trample over on his way to a #FreshStart.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, the phone clutched tightly in my hands. A memory flickered, unbidden—a rainy afternoon months ago when Leo and I had curled up on the couch, sharing an umbrella of dreams. He’d talked about Paris then, about how we’d sip wine at tiny cafés and stroll hand-in-hand along the Seine. I’d believed him. Believed in us. That life felt so distant now, like a cruel joke played on a naive version of myself.

My chest tightened, the anger rising sharper. I hated that I’d trusted him. Hated that I’d let myself believe in the future we’d planned. Hated that a part of me still wanted to understand why he’d done it—why he’d thrown everything away so carelessly. But most of all, I hated that I was here, in this apartment filled with remnants of a wedding that never happened, while he was out there living some glamorous new life.

I stood abruptly, pacing again. My mind raced, the anger simmering into something hotter, more dangerous. I couldn’t sit here anymore, wallowing in my humiliation. If Leo thought he could just run off to Paris and pretend I didn’t exist, he was sorely mistaken.

But what could I do? Fly to Paris and confront him? The thought was ridiculous… wasn’t it?

I stopped, my heart pounding. The idea was insane. Impulsive. Completely out of character. And yet, for the first time in days, it felt like something I could do. Something tangible. Something that might give me back a shred of control.

I grabbed my laptop and opened it, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Flights to Paris. One-way ticket. No checked baggage. The cheapest flight was leaving tomorrow morning at 7:30 a.m. I stared at the screen, my pulse hammering in my ears. Could I really do this? Could I fly halfway across the world with no plan, no backup, no idea what I was walking into?

My finger hovered over the “purchase” button as doubts rushed in. What if it was a mistake? What if I got there and froze? What if confronting Leo only made things worse? But then I thought of that Instagram post—Leo’s smug smile, Sophia’s golden glow, the Eiffel Tower standing tall as if mocking me—and the doubts quieted.

I clicked the button.

The confirmation email popped up almost instantly. I stared at it, my hands trembling, equal parts terrified and exhilarated. I was really doing this.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t planning, overanalyzing, or second-guessing myself. I was taking action.

I leaned back into the couch, clutching my phone as a nervous laugh bubbled up in my throat. Was this the most impulsive thing I’d ever done? Absolutely. But it also felt… right. Maybe somewhere deep down, the version of me who used to dream of traveling the world was still alive, still waiting for a chance to break free. The one who once pressed flowers into a scrapbook and imagined herself exploring cobblestone streets and sunlit coastlines. Maybe this wasn’t just about Leo. Maybe it was about me.

My phone buzzed with a text from Emily: *“How are you holding up? Do you want to come over for dinner?”*

I stared at the message for a moment before typing back: *“Thanks, but I’ve got something I need to do. I’ll call you soon.”*

I hit “send” and stood, already mentally listing what I’d need to pack. My passport was tucked away in the bottom drawer of my nightstand. My suitcase was buried in the back of my closet, a relic of business trips and vacations that felt like a lifetime ago. I had no idea what I was walking into, but for the first time in days, I felt alive.

Tomorrow, Paris.

And Leo Carter had no idea what was coming for him.