His Fireworks Spelled Her Name

I stared at my phone, the silence screaming louder than any words. Once again, I was alone.

Today was supposed to be special—my 22nd birthday. I'd cleared my entire schedule, even with deadlines piling up, just to spend it with Jared, my boyfriend.

We'd planned this months ago. But Jared wasn't exactly the type who kept a nine-to-five. As the heir to a powerful mafia family, his life was a never-ending cycle of meetings, threats, and last-minute emergencies.

I dialed his number, my fingers tapping impatiently against the screen.

Lately, our time together had dwindled. He kept saying he was swamped with some "big project," and I tried not to pry—but between the danger of his job and her sudden reappearance in town, it was hard not to spiral.

Sara. His first love. The one who had just waltzed back into the city like she owned it.

"Jared. Pick up." I hit redial.

The call went straight to voicemail before cutting off.

I paced my tiny apartment, chewing my lip. My mind raced through worst-case scenarios—ambushes, betrayals, bloodshed. That was the reality of dating a man like him.

Then, a text popped up:

Something urgent came up.

I sank onto the couch, swallowing one of my anxiety pills. Dating Jared was far from stress-free, but I'd always thought it was worth it. He'd saved me once—pulled me out of a kidnapping attempt by a rival gang. That kind of loyalty wasn't easy to forget.

I typed back: Will I see you today?

The minutes dragged. My mind replayed every canceled date—the picnic in the park, the bike ride, all the little promises that never happened. Normally, Jared at least gave me a detailed excuse and a raincheck.

But not this time.

My ice cream cake was melting. I shoved it into the freezer, but the motion reminded me of last time.

He'd promised to meet me at the shop. "Just around the corner," he'd said. Fifteen minutes later, I called—only to find out he'd rushed off to help Sara move a couch. He had an entire crew of men for that kind of thing, but no. He had to go himself.

I shook my head.

Today's my birthday. He wouldn't ditch me for his high school sweetheart… right?

As if the universe had heard me, my phone buzzed with a social media notification—a viral livestream.

The caption: Sara Morelli Written in Fireworks.

Of course. Sara wasn't just Jared's ex—she was a rising supermodel, adored by millions.

I clicked the video.

And my heart split in two.

There he was—my boyfriend—on a luxury cruise, fingers laced with Sara's, grinning up at the sky as fireworks spelled her name.

I didn't know whether to scream or sob.

Here I was, locked in my apartment like some hidden secret (because God forbid the mafia's enemies find me), while Jared flaunted her in front of the world.

The camera zoomed in as he leaned close, whispering something that made her laugh. What was so damn funny?

Another burst of fireworks. Her name glittered in the sky.

He'd never done anything like that for me.

"Be grateful," he always said. "Plenty of women would kill to be in your position."

Yeah. And Sara was at the front of that line.

I called him.

He didn't pick up until the third ring. "Ashley, why are you blowing up my phone?"

"Sorry to interrupt your very important date," I snapped, sarcasm dripping.

"I'm at work."

A month ago, I would've believed him. Now? Now I just felt like an idiot.

"I see how busy you are. Maybe next time, you'll propose to her with a skywriter."