Three Strikes, You're Out Goodbye, My Toxic Ex

This was the third time I had gone to City Hall with my boyfriend to sign our marriage papers, and his neighbor's daughter called him again.

He looked at me with hesitation, opening his mouth but saying nothing. "Grace, can we do this next time?" I stood there, looking at him coldly. "The first time we came here, Chloe sprained her ankle, and you abandoned me to rush her to the ER." "The second time, she said she couldn't turn off her stove, and you abandoned me again to go turn it off for her." Before I could finish, my boyfriend interrupted me. "This time is different.

Chloe tore her finger on a broken presson nail." "If I'm not there to put a BandAid on it, she'll be in too much pain to bear." With that, my boyfriend turned and ran, leaving me at City Hall once again.

Watching his retreating figure, I quietly threw my queue ticket into the trash can. A marriage certificate that couldn't be signed... there was no need to sign it ever again.

I walked out of City Hall and took an Uber back to our apartment.

I took the elevator up to the 17th floor, stood in front of our future home, and pressed my finger against the scanner. The screen flashed red: Fingerprint not recognized.

I tried again. Red again. I typed in the passcode. My birthday, six digits, the one we had used for ten years. "Incorrect passcode." I tried his birthday. "Incorrect passcode.

Two attempts remaining." I pulled my hand back. He had stood me up on our wedding registration day, yet he had remembered to change the door code.

The hallway was dead silent, the blue indicator light on the lock blinking steadily. I leaned my back against the wall, a wave of coldness creeping up my spine, inch by inch.

The elevator dinged. Carter walked out, with Chloe hovering half a step behind him. She had a pink Hello Kitty BandAid wrapped around her left index finger.

Her acrylic nails were completely intact. "Where did you run off to?" Carter's first words weren't an apology. "I called you six times.

You didn't pick up once." He frowned. "Do you have any idea how worried I was?" Chloe peeked out from behind him, her voice soft and sweet. "Carter, is Grace mad at us?

It's all my fault... I shouldn't have asked for your help..." She waved her BandAided finger right in front of his eyes.

Carter immediately turned to her. "It's not your fault, Chloe." Then he turned back to me, his tone softening slightly. "She's just clumsy.

A broken piece of her nail scratched her finger, so I helped her put a BandAid on it. It's a tiny thing." I didn't reply.

I squeezed past them and stood in front of the door. "What's the code?" "...352716." The door opened. I walked straight to the bar cabinet.

On the top shelf sat a bottle of vintage whiskey, its label yellowed and curling at the edges. He had bought it ten years ago, saying we would open it on our wedding day.

I took it down. "What are you doing with that?" Carter followed me into the living room. "You said we'd drink it on our wedding day." "Yeah, so put it back," he said.

I turned the bottle upside down. The amber liquid splashed onto the carpet, soaking into the fabric instantly, leaving a wide, dark stain.

The entire living room filled with a sour, fermented smell that clung to the air. "Grace!" He rushed over to grab the bottle, but it was already empty.

The last few drops fell from the rim, landing on his shoes. "Are you losing your mind?" "Carter, this was our third attempt to get married." "I told you, Chloe needed me!" "It's not going to make it to that day." I set the empty bottle on the coffee table.

His face flushed red, a vein pulsing at his temple. "You're being completely unreasonable," he spat out. He turned and headed toward the foyer.

Chloe stood there, tugging at her sleeve, her eyes darting toward me. "Chloe, come inside and rest.

Don't mind her." He put a hand on Chloe's shoulder, guiding her into the master bedroom. The door shut. The living room was left with only the whiskey stain and the sour smell.

I went into the study and opened the drawers. My ID, passport, property deed copies. I took them out, one by one, and stuffed them into my canvas tote. My phone buzzed.

An Instagram update from Chloe. It was a photo of our master bedroom bed. In the topright corner, a dark gray suit jacket hung over the back of a chair.

Captioned with a smiling sun emoji. Posted three minutes ago. I closed Instagram and opened my contacts. Carter Hayes. I swiped left and hit delete.

I opened Snapchat, went to our chat, scrolled to the bottom, and blocked him. My screen went back to the chat list. His avatar was gone.

I zipped up my canvas tote and placed my phone face down on the desk. The drawers were empty. The bar was empty. And my contacts were empty, too.

At seven the next morning, the moving truck was parked downstairs. Two movers followed me upstairs.

I unlocked the door with yesterday's passcode and told them to start with the study. As I passed the master bedroom, the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open.

Chloe was standing in front of the fulllength mirror, wearing my wedding dress. A custom white satin gown. I had it custommade in Paris last year.

The fabric alone cost twelve thousand dollars. She was twisting her body to admire the flare of the skirt.

When she heard the door, the smile on her face froze instantly. "GGrace... I was just trying it on..." She took a step back, her heel catching on the hem.

The lace trim ripped with a sharp tear. I pulled out my phone and took two quick photos of her and the torn hem. Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Carter rushed in.

He froze when he saw the movers, then saw me standing at the bedroom door. "What are you doing?" "Moving my things," I said. "Is this really necessary?" He leaned against the doorframe, adjusting his tone to a softer, placating one. "Cool down, okay?

I'll take you to City Hall tomorrow. Deal?" Inside, Chloe said in a small voice, "Carter, I didn't mean to wear it..." "It's fine, Chloe.

Go change out of it." Carter turned back to comfort her. Then, he lowered his voice and spoke to me. "Tomorrow. I promise." I didn't look at him.

I pulled out my phone, opened the calculator, and turned the screen to his face. "The fabric of this dress was twelve thousand. The labor was fifteen thousand.

With the custom fee, the total was thirtyfive thousand dollars. She ripped the lace.

Depreciation plus damagepay me twentyfive thousand." Carter's expression froze. "What did you say?" "Pay up." "She's just a young girl." "Twentyfive thousand.

Wire transfer or cash." He stared at me, his lip twitching. "Fine." He pulled out his phone and opened his bank app. He flashed the balance screen at me. $26,310.

Over the last ten years, I had invested over two hundred thousand dollars into this home. And he only had this much left in his account.

Before he could transfer the money, his phone rang. Caller ID: Mom. He picked up on speaker. Helen's voice blared out. "Grace. Carter told me what's going on.

Are you throwing a tantrum again? Chloe is young and doesn't know any better. You're the older one here, be more generous.

A wedding dress is just a piece of clothing." I reached out and hung up the call. Carter opened his mouth. "You" I walked past him into the master bedroom, straight to Chloe.

She had gotten half of it off, the white satin pooled at her feet. I bent down, picked up the dress, and grabbed a pair of scissors from the desk.

With a sharp snip, the sound of ripping fabric echoed in the room. "Grace!" The cold light of the scissors sliced through the satin. White fragments drifted to the floor like snow.

Chloe covered her mouth and shrank into the corner. By the time Carter rushed over, the last piece of the skirt had slipped from my hand.

The shredded pieces lay right at his feet. "Thirtyfive thousand dollars," I said, putting down the scissors. "Your precious neighbor wore it, and your mom says I'm petty.

Now, nobody gets it." I walked out to the living room. On the coffee table lay the itemized bill I had prepared last night. Ten years.

Every single expense, date, amount, and purpose.

Three pages of printed paper. "Take your time reading it." I slung my canvas tote over my shoulder and took my suitcase from the mover.

Carter stood amidst the white shreds, his mouth open, unable to make a sound. The scissors lay by his feet, the metal reflecting the harsh overhead light, cold and sharp.

I walked to the door. The door slammed shut with a loud bang that vibrated through the hallway, making my soles tingle. The elevator doors were open. The movers stepped aside.

I dragged my suitcase inside and pressed the button for the lobby. In the very last second before the doors closed, I heard the apartment door fly open down the hall.

But the elevator was already moving down.

In the hotel lobby, the manager recognized me instantly. He stood at the entrance of the grand ballroom, a look of embarrassment plastered on his face. "Ms.

Sterling, the venue layout has been changed." "Changed to what?" "Miss Vance's birthday party." My fingers tightened on my bag's strap.

I had personally booked this venue six months ago. The deposit, the floral arrangements, the lightingevery single dime had come from my personal bank account.

Carter hadn't said a single word to me about this. "Show me the receipt," I said coldly. The manager tried to brush it off, rubbing his hands. "Mr.

Hayes instructed us..." "I want to see the receipt," I interrupted. Unable to win the argument, he pulled out the booking contract. In the payer column: my name, in bold black ink.

I snapped a picture of the contract and called hotel security. When the ballroom doors were pushed open, the party inside was in full swing.

Chloe sat in the center seat, wearing a pink tulle dress, surrounded by a dozen of Carter's relatives. Some were handing her gifts; others were taking photos with their phones.

A threetier champagne tower stood nearby, the top glass bubbling merrily. When she saw me, she froze. Then, she smiled.

It was the kind of smile she was best atdelicate, innocent, with just the right amount of panic. "Grace?" She instinctively shrank back into the crowd. I didn't even look at her.

I walked straight to the audio control panel and ripped out the power cord. The music cut out instantly. The speakers let out a sharp, earpiercing screech as the power died.

Someone's hand shook, knocking over a champagne glass. The entire hall fell dead silent.

Carter stood up from the back and walked over to me in a few quick strides, his face pale with anger. "What do you think you're doing?" "Canceling my booking." "Our family is all here" "You used my money," I interrupted, "to throw her a birthday party?" He paused.

I could tell. He thought the company had paid for it. He probably hadn't even looked at the payment records. "My assistant booked it," he said, sounding defensive.

I slapped the contract onto the table.

The paper landed on the red tablecloth, covering Chloe's unopened gift boxes. "Look at the payer name yourself." He looked down, his throat tightening.

Whispers began to break out in the hall. One of Carter's aunts frowned. "Carter, what's going on here?" He didn't answer. Right on cue, Chloe's eyes welled with tears.

She grabbed the sleeve of the aunt next to her, her voice trembling perfectly. "I didn't know...

I really didn't know this was Grace's venue..." Her nose turned red, tears clinging to her eyelashes.

Without giving her a single glance, I turned to the manager. "Here's the contract. I'm the payer. Clear the room." The manager hesitated for two seconds.

He looked at the contract, then at Carter, and finally nodded to the security guards. The staff began clearing the tables.

A waiter fumbled while moving the champagne tower, and one of the bottom glasses shattered against the edge of the table.

The sound of breaking glass was sharp, and champagne spilled all over the table. Balloons were deflated one by one, sinking onto the carpet.

Chloe finally covered her face and ran out of the room. Several relatives scrambled to follow her. Carter stood in the middle of the mess, his fists clenched, silent.

I took my contract back and turned to leave. Behind me, his voice came, low and strained. "Are you happy now?" I didn't stop walking. "I'll remember what happened today.

Think carefully before next week's project meeting." I pushed open the glass doors of the lobby. The sun outside was blinding. I squinted.

Standing on the steps, I pulled out my phone. The business card of our competitor, Mr. Davis, was still tucked inside my phone case.

Before dialing, my throat tightened slightly, but my hand was perfectly steady. It rang twice before he picked up. "Mr.

Davis, this is Grace Sterling." "About the proposal we discussed last time... I'd like to schedule a time to meet."

Monday's project meeting lasted forty minutes. Carter announced that Chloe would be taking over the core proposal I had been leading. The conference room was dead silent.

He asked if I had any objections. "None," I replied calmly. For the rest of the afternoon, I compiled three years of project files and handed them to Chloe myself.

She took them with a smile. "Thanks, Grace." I nodded, went back to my desk, slid a voice recorder behind my pen holder, and pressed record.

Four days after Chloe took over, the core database crashed. The client sent a formal complaint letter that night. I counted the zeroes in the damage claim three times.

Carter called me into his office.

His tie was loosened, and sweat beaded on his forehead. "Go handle the client." "Carter, this isn't my project anymore." "But you know the workflow." "Chloe knows it too.

You're the one who handed it to her." He slammed his hand on the desk. "Do you not understand the situation we're in?" Oh, I understood perfectly.

The recorder had been running for this exact moment.

Every single instance of Chloe's incompetent directions, every mistaken phone call over the past four days, was saved. "You want me to take the fall?" He didn't speak.

Silence was an admission. I stood up. "Fine, I'll handle it." He leaned back in his chair, his shoulders visibly relaxing. I left his office, but I didn't go to the client.

I opened my phone and went to our company's WhatsApp group. Two hundred and thirtyseven people.

I dragged the compiled files into the chatrecordings, screenshots, and the original client communication logs.

Every file was labeled with a timestamp and the name of the person responsible. My finger hovered over the send button. A second later, I pressed it.

Almost every phone on the floor buzzed at the same time. The group chat fell silent for a few seconds, and then notifications exploded.

People were tagging Carter, tagging Chloe, while others just sent strings of ellipses. Chloe jumped up from her seat, frantically tapping her screen. She wanted to recall the files.

But with thirtyseven documents, the recall window had long passed.

By the time Carter rushed out of his office, I was already standing in the middle of the hallway holding two things. One was my resignation letter.

The other was a joint resignation statement from the core team. Eight signatures, not a single one missing.

He stopped dead in front of me. "Grace, have you lost your mind?" "No." I handed him the resignation letter.

He snatched it and tore it to shreds right in front of everyone in the hallway.

The paper ripped, and white scraps fluttered down onto the dark gray carpet. "You think you can survive out there without this company?" His voice was cracked and raw. "What about the client?

What about the channels?" The sound of dress shoes clicking on the tiles echoed from the end of the hallway. The receptionist walked up, leading a man in a sharp suit.

The folder in his hand bore our major client's corporate logo. In the bottom right corner was a bright red corporate stamp. "Mr.

Carter Hayes?" "...Yes." "This is a legal notice from our firm." The man's tone was strictly business. "Since your core manager, Ms.

Grace Sterling, has resigned, our client is officially terminating all cooperation under Section 17 of the contract." "All followup matters will be handled directly with Ms.

Sterling's new team." Carter's hand trembled as he reached for the paper. I turned and walked toward the elevator.

My heels clicked against the scattered scraps of paper on the floor, each step making a crisp sound. The elevator doors slid open.

I stepped in and pressed the button for the garage. In the last sliver of space before the doors closed, I saw Carter standing frozen, unable to move an inch.

The legal notice hung limply in his hand. The resignation letter he had just torn up was being scattered around his feet by the draft in the hallway.

But the elevator doors in front of me had already shut completely.