The ink on our marriage certificate is still wet when Devon tells me he's been sleeping with Sophia. We're standing in the parking lot of the courthouse, the February wind cutting through my thin dress—the same pale blue one I wore when I married Jason five years ago. I couldn't afford a new one. Devon knows this. He commented on it this morning with that smile I mistook for affection. "I need to tell you something," he says, keys dangling from his finger. Not even the decency to wait until we're in the car. I'm already smiling, thinking he's planned some surprise. A dinner reservation maybe. Something to make up for the fact that we're alone, that neither of us invited family or friends. He said he wanted it intimate. Special. "I've been seeing someone else," he continues, and my smile freezes. "Actually, you know her. Sophia." The name hits me like a fist to the sternum. Sophia. My former best friend. The woman who destroyed my first marriage. "That's not funny," I whisper. "It's not a joke." Devon's face is completely neutral, like he's commenting on the weather. "We've been together for about three months now. Started right after I proposed to you, actually." My legs forget how to work. I lean against the hood of his car—our car now, legally—and try to process the words coming out of his mouth. "Why?" It's the only word I can manage. He pulls out his phone, and I notice his hand isn't shaking. Mine are trembling so badly I have to clasp them together. "Sophia wanted to see how you'd react," he says, tapping the screen. "She bet me you'd cry immediately. I said you'd try to stay calm first, then break down. We have money riding on this." He turns the phone toward me. It's a video call. And there she is. Sophia hasn't changed much in five years. Same glossy dark hair, same perfect makeup, same cruel smile that I somehow mistook for friendship for fifteen years. She's lounging on a white couch I don't recognize, wine glass in hand. "Hi, Mara," she says, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Congratulations on your wedding day. Again." I can't breathe. The parking lot tilts sideways. "Oh God, look at her face," Sophia laughs, that tinkling sound that used to make me laugh too. Now it sounds like breaking glass. "Devon, you were right. She's trying so hard not to cry. It's actually pathetic." "Please," I hear myself say. "Why are you doing this?" "Why?" Sophia leans closer to her camera, her eyes glittering. "Because you're so easy, Mara. You've always been so desperately easy. Do you know how boring you are? How predictable? Even now, you're going to ask him if he ever loved you. Go on. Ask." My mouth opens. Closes. She's right. The question is already forming on my tongue. "Did you..." I swallow hard. "Did you ever—" "Love you?" Devon finishes, pocketing his phone so I can't see Sophia anymore, though I can still hear her laughter. "No. This was always about the bet. Well, and your apartment. The lease is in your name, and Sophia needs a place in the city. You'll be moving out, obviously." The apartment. The one-bedroom in Brooklyn that I scraped and saved for after my divorce from Jason. The place where I rebuilt myself piece by piece over five years. My safe space. "We're married," I say stupidly, holding up my hand with its simple silver band. "You can't just—" "We'll annul it. Sophia's lawyer is already drafting the papers." He checks his watch, actually checks his watch. "You have until Monday to clear out. That gives you three days." "Devon, please—" "Oh, and Mara?" Sophia's voice crackles through the phone speaker. "Jason says hi. We're engaged now, by the way. Took him long enough to propose, but I guess he needed to make sure I wasn't damaged goods like you." Jason. My ex-husband. The man I found in bed with Sophia five years ago. The memory crashes over me: coming home early from my nursing shift, exhausted and three months pregnant, to find them tangled in our sheets. Sophia's face when she saw me—not guilty, not apologetic. Triumphant. The miscarriage came two days later. The doctors said it was stress-induced. I lost everything that week. My husband. My best friend. My baby. My belief that the world could be good. And now, standing in this courthouse parking lot with a marriage certificate that means nothing, I'm losing everything again. "You look like you're going to be sick," Devon observes clinically. "Try not to throw up on the car. It's detailed." Something inside me cracks. Not breaks—I broke five years ago. This is different. This is something shifting, realigning, hardening into a shape I don't recognize yet. "Can I ask one question?" My voice sounds strange. Calm. Devon shrugs. "Sure." "Did Sophia plan this from the beginning? You meeting me, I mean." He actually looks impressed. "Yeah. She saw you on a dating app six months ago and sent me your profile. Said it would be hilarious. She was right." "Hilarious," I repeat. "Come on, Mara. You had to know you were too boring for someone like me. The whole sweet, damaged nurse thing got old fast." I nod slowly. "I see."