I thought of the ring Justin had saved up half a year's salary to buy me, the one with the tiny diamond chips, still sitting on my ring finger.
I remembered standing in front of that billboard, staring at the pink diamond for the longest time, unable to look away.
Justin had wrapped his arms around me and pointed up at the screen, making a promise.
"Once the company's stable, babe."
"I'll get it for you. Soon."
"My wife deserves the best. My whole heart, only for you."
It was me.
It was me.
I felt sorry for Justin.
I understood how hard the road had been for him to get where he was.
I couldn't bring myself to let him spend on luxury goods and expensive jewelry for me.
It was me.
I believed love could conquer anything.
I believed that as long as we had each other, we could live on nothing.
Turns out, those were just things I believed.
Turns out, reality's first lesson hit harder than I ever imagined.
Then I heard Odette's voice.
"Louisa."
"Whether you sign those papers or not, whether you give up that title, whether I ever get that marriage certificate."
"None of it matters."
Odette couldn't wait to show off. She sent me photos of the mansion Justin bought her, the luxury cars, an entire room overflowing with designer goods and jewelry, every item tagged with its price, just to rub it in.
"You dried-up old hag."
"You deserve to be the clueless little nobody you are."
"Let me open your eyes for you. See all this?"
"The things you wouldn't even dare dream of?"
"All I have to do is crook my finger."
"And it's mine."
Right after Odette's messages, Justin sent me a voice note. He said:
"Louisa."
"Just agree to the divorce."
"If you ever run into trouble down the road, I can still help you out."
"But you had to push things this far."
Something like old affection flickered through his tone, a rare moment of patience with me.
"Why make this harder than it has to be?"
"After all these years, you know what I've turned you into. Don't pretend you don't."
I listened to his voice while staring at the wedding dress I'd already shredded to pieces, the portrait he'd painted of me, the love letters he'd written, all of it garbage now, stuffed into cardboard boxes. I smiled, pressed the record button, and asked him right back.
"Turned me into what, exactly?"
"I'm not sure I follow."
"Why don't you," I watched the movers carry out the last of it, the apartment already half-empty, "spell it out for me, Mr. Simmons?"