Three years ago, my best friend stole my fiancé. At our charity gala, she smirked, “Poor Sophia, still married to your work at 34. I’m planning an Italian wedding.” I smiled. “Have you met my husband?” I called him over—her champagne glass trembled. She recognized him instantly and froze.

Halfway through the evening, I excused myself to the ladies’ lounge. I needed a moment of silence away from the thrum of the orchestra.

I was at the mirror, adjusting a stray hair, when the door swung open. Christina entered. The facade was gone. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her lipstick slightly smeared.

“You think you’ve won, don’t you?” she hissed, slamming her clutch onto the marble counter.

“I wasn’t aware we were playing a game, Christina,” I said, meeting her gaze in the reflection. “But if we were, you forfeited the moment you cheated.”

“I wanted what you had!” she cried, her voice echoing off the tile. “You always had everything so perfectly ordered. The career, the man, the respect. I was the ‘best friend,’ the sidekick. I wanted to see what it felt like to be the one on the pedestal.”

“And how does it feel?” I asked quietly.

She let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “It’s a nightmare, Sophia. Ryan is a wreck. He’s losing his partnership. He’s angry all the time. He takes it out on me because I’m the only thing he has left. He told me last week that he missed you. That you were ‘smarter’ and ‘more interesting.’ That I was just… convenient.”

I felt a flash of pity for her, but it was quickly extinguished by the memory of her legs on my sofa.

“You didn’t want Ryan, Christina,” I said. “You just wanted to take something from me. But you forgot that people aren’t trophies. They’re foundations. And Ryan’s foundation was made of sand.”

“And Alexander?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Is he ‘real’?”

“He’s the most real thing I’ve ever known,” I replied. “Because he doesn’t see me as a ‘perfect life’ to be stolen. He sees me as a partner to build with.”

Christina slumped against the counter, her silk dress wrinkling. She looked broken. “He’s right. I’m not smart. I’m not interesting. I’m just… the woman who helped him ruin his life.”

“You made your choices,” I said, picking up my purse. “Now you have to live in the house you built. I hope the view is what you wanted.”

I walked out of the lounge and didn’t look back.