The lunch break came as a relief, a brief escape from the monotony of my office at 78 Park Avenue. I had no reason to suspect anything as I climbed the familiar stairs to my third-floor apartment. The door was ajar, which was unusual, but not alarming enough to stop me. As I pushed it open, the sight that greeted me turned my world on its head. There they were, my fiancé and my best friend, in a tangle of sheets. A smirk played on his lips as he saw me standing there. “Gonna cry?” he asked, as if daring me to break down. I stood frozen for a moment, taking in the betrayal with a calmness that surprised even me. The silence stretched, heavy and loaded. Without a word, I turned and walked away, leaving behind the broken pieces of what I once thought was my future. There was no dramatic confrontation, no raised voices—just a quiet, seething resolve to move forward. But how does one truly move on from such a betrayal? The answer, I would soon find, lay in the details waiting to unfold.