Chapter 4: Looking Into The Mirror

Chloe. The first thing I did after leaving Brandon was stand in front of a mirror and wonder if I had finally become the woman he always saw when he looked at me. The bedroom in my apartment was dead silent. My three packed suitcases stood waiting near the closet door, but I couldn't bring myself to zip the last one shut. Every object resting on the dresser seemed to scream his name. The silver jewelry dish we bought together on our trip to Maine. The fluffy blanket he gave me when I passed my event coordinator certification. The soft, earth-toned curtains I spent three weeks picking out because I thought they fit the aesthetic of the future home we were building. I turned away from the room, but my eyes landed straight on the full-length mirror attached to the wardrobe door. My breath hitched in my chest. For four years, I knew I was plus-size. I had soft curves, full hips, and a very big tummy like I was months pregnant. But I had never believed those things made me less of a woman. I had worn my dresses with quiet pride. I had walked into crowded rooms holding my head high. Now, staring at my reflection, Brandon’s insults flooded back into my head, echoing word for word. “A fat pig like you.” “Dragging you along while you squeeze yourself into dresses that look like sailcloth.” “I have to force myself to tolerate you.” My stomach turned. My own reflection felt like something foreign, something I couldn't trust anymore. I reached down, stripped off the oversized beige sweater, and threw it onto the floor. I walked to my open drawer, pulled out a fitted black knit dress, and stepped into it. I pulled it over my shoulders and faced the glass again. “You look like his mother standing beside him, not his bride.” Sienna’s voice joined his, sharp and mocking. I unzipped the black dress, let it drop to my ankles, and kicked it aside. My chest heaved as I grabbed a pair of high-waisted trousers and a simple cream blouse. I shoved my arms through the sleeves and buttoned it up. I looked in the mirror again. “He needs someone who fits,” Sienna had whispered while leaning into his bare chest. “Not someone who looks like a charitable contribution.” I tore off the blouse, my fingers trembling so hard that I nearly ripped the top button off. Hot, angry tears burned the backs of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I remembered the exact way Brandon’s eyes had looked at Sienna’s narrow waist and slender shoulders. I remembered the lazy, effortless grace with which she slid off him, entirely confident in her thin body. The comparison was unbearable... It pressed against my ribcage until I could barely pull air into my lungs. “Stop it,” I whispered into the quiet room, my voice cracking against the stillness. “Just stop.” I forced my hands down to my sides and took a slow, heavy breath. If I spent the rest of my life seeing myself through Brandon’s eyes, then he was going to go on controlling me long after I walked out that door. He would still own me. He would still dictate how I moved through the world. I picked up the simple cream blouse from the floor, pulled it back on, and buttoned it with steady fingers. I didn't look back at the glass to see if it made my waist look small enough or if it hid my hips. I didn't suddenly feel confident. The pain in my throat was still raw and bleeding. But I reached a quiet, firm decision: I wasn't going to hate my own body just because a coward decided I should. That was why his betrayal cut so deeply. Brandon hadn't merely cheated on me with my sister. He took the one thing I had trusted him with—my fragile belief that I was desirable—and used it to destroy me from the inside out. I realized then that my recovery couldn't depend on finding another man to whisper sweet assurances in my ear. It wouldn't matter if ten men told me I was beautiful if I didn't believe it myself. I had to earn that belief back, piece by piece, on my own terms. I walked over to the bed, grabbed my last bag, and zipped it closed with a sharp, final tug. I looked around the master bedroom one last time. My gaze landed on the small gold frame resting on the nightstand. It was a picture of Brandon and me at an outdoor gala last winter, both of us bundled up in coats, laughing into the cold air. I walked over and picked it up. For a second, my fingers tightened around the frame, and I almost placed it back on the wood. Instead, I turned the frame face down, letting the dark backing cover the memory. Suddenly, my phone on the dresser vibrated sharply against the hard wood, the sound cutting through the silence like an alarm. I walked over and stared at the screen. BRANDON The caller ID lit up like a neon sign. My heart was pounding in my chest. I moved my thumb an inch above the screen and froze. His call was about to roll over into voicemail when the screen flickered and then another incoming call appeared on top of his. SIENNA Both of them were calling me. Simultaneously. I stared at the two names flashing on the display. After what happened in that suite, I knew neither call was coming from a place of remorse or innocence. They were checking to see if the damage was contained. If I was crying. If I had really broken. If I would come back begging him to take me back. But I didn't answer. I slid my thumb over the power button, held it down, and watched the screen turn completely dark. Tomorrow, they would wake up expecting their discarded bride to still be sitting somewhere waiting for them, broken and reachable. They were wrong.