Chapter 1Every April Fools' Day, my boyfriend Weston teamed up with his "girl-bro" Bianca for the same prank: a fake proposal.
Last year, I slipped on the ring. It clamped tight. Crushed my fingers.
Screamed in pain.
They just laughed.
To apologize, Weston swore he'd propose for REAL this year.
So when he texted me to rush to our first date spot, I went all in.
Perm. Nails. Full face. New dress.
Even drafted an engagement post.
Pushed open the door, grinning.
A thick slab of cream smacked me in the face.
Bianca's loud laugh filled the room.
"Told you she'd come, Weston! You OWE ME!"
Weston wiped cream off my cheeks, tone soft as ever:
"You look stunning—such a waste of a nice outfit."
"The guys and I made a bet. If I could get you here, I win—proposal tomorrow. If not, next year."
Pause.
"Sorry. Since you came, no wedding this year."
Stared at him quietly.
"So you remember what tomorrow is?"
He chuckled.
"Of course—our sixth anniversary. How could I forget?"
Cream dripping down my face.
Suddenly felt hollow.
Our anniversary mattered less than April Fools'.
Just like I mattered less than his girl best friend.
Slid off the plain matching ring we'd worn for six years.
"Let's break up."
Smiled.
Walked straight to the VIP booth behind them.
Weston's biggest rival.
The man he'd been losing sleep over.
Sat on his lap.
Took his drink.
"I know EVERYTHING about Weston Reid's business. I'll hand it to you for FREE—just want front-row seats."
Weston's face went WHITE.
Raised my glass at him and Bianca.
"Happy April Fools'. You taught me the punchline ALWAYS comes last."
Dumped him. Tanked his company. Dating his enemy.
The joke's on YOU now, honey!
---
The sharp clink of the ring hitting the floor silenced the room.
Weston frowned. "Stop being dramatic. It's just cream—I'll wash it off later. You know Bianca used to pull way worse stunts. She's held back for you. Took so much to get you here—don't make me look like a buzzkill in front of the guys."
Bianca pouted, lower lip trembling. "Nova, it's just a joke! If you hate it, we'll stop. Why talk about breaking up? I told you she can't take a joke, Weston. Now look what you did."
She plopped down on the couch, huffing. The eyes on me turned cold—she was the only girl in their friend group, their golden child. When she pouted, everyone rushed to soothe her. Weston was no exception.
Our first meeting: Bianca hosted Truth or Dare. Others did silly dares, but mine? Moan on the spot. I'd only said the penalty was over the line, and Bianca teared up and ran out. Everyone chased her—Weston included. My welcome dinner ended with me sitting alone.
Weston never mentioned it, but after that, he never brought me to gatherings unless Bianca approved.
Now he glared at me. "Nova, apologize to Bianca."
In the past, to fit in, to save him from losing face in front of his buddies, I would have swallowed my pride and bitten my tongue. I might have even jumped in with an apology before he had to ask. But now? My breakup mattered less than Bianca's bad mood.
I finally saw the truth—our relationship had never measured up to his bond with his girl best friend.
I grabbed my coat and bag—the one I'd bought specially to meet his parents—and met their judgmental stares. "Weston, it's over. For real."
I stumbled slightly in my heels as I left. As the door swung shut behind me, Bianca's teasing voice, muffled but clear, slithered out. "Not gonna chase after your little lovesick puppy?"
Weston's scoff was cold and dismissive. "She's just having a tantrum. If I run after her now, what message does that send? Don't worry. She's got no one else. She'll come crawling back—way less trouble than you."
My heart felt like it was torn open, his words slicing through the wound like cold wind.
Chapter 2
Six years ago, right on this spot, Weston had poured his heart out, vowing I was the only one for him, now and forever. Winning me over hadn't been easy for him.
At fifteen, my parents remarried, starting new families. I became the unwanted burden no one wanted to mention. I resisted relationships, avoided starting a family, turned him down five times.
The last time: I'd been followed by a burglar while living alone. He'd shown up just in time, taking down the attacker—but got hurt in the process, ending up in the hospital.
After the nurse bandaged him, his eyes glistened. "Nova, why are you so stubborn? Can't you let me protect you?"
In that moment, my resolve crumbled. I thought—maybe dating someone reliable, someone gentle, wouldn't be so bad.
That night, he'd asked me here to confess. When I said yes, the usually poised gentleman lifted me up and spun me around like a fool. We'd collapsed onto the floor, dizzy, his strong arms holding me tight.
We sat on the steps outside, staring at the moon. He swore with him, I'd never be lonely again. I'd never be abandoned.
But now, the old wounds I'd cautiously let him see, the ones that had just begun to scar over, felt ripped wide open—and he was the one holding the knife. A hollow, self-mocking laugh escaped me as I pulled up the expiring transfer offer in my email—sent five days earlier. Typing three words wasn't as hard as I'd feared:
"Nova accepts headquarters transfer."
I glanced at the moon, veiled by thin clouds. Weston, I'd never been easy to calm down. And now, I didn't need you to try.
My train ticket was booked for the afternoon of the 2nd—I had little time left. Back at our apartment, I washed off the cream grime and packed my bags. There weren't many traces of me in the apartment to begin with. Packing my life away was a swift, almost surgical process. In the end, it all fit into two suitcases—one large, one small.
At 3 a.m., I'd booked a hotel and was heading out when I crashed into Weston, just home from his night out. He maneuvered a completely unconscious Bianca onto the couch, then thrust a bag of pears toward me without so much as a glance. "You're up. Good. She's plastered. Make her some sober-up soup, or she'll be impossible all night."
I stood frozen. When we first moved in, he'd come home drunk, vomiting nonstop. I'd felt terrible, getting up at midnight to make him soup. But the cheap clay pot had cracked over the stove, boiling soup splattering all over me.
He'd sobered up instantly, staring at my burns with guilt. After that, he'd banned me from the kitchen—even when he was sick and craved porridge, he'd order takeout instead of letting me cook.
For years, I'd never stepped foot in that kitchen. He'd even hung a handwritten sign: "Kitchen off-limits to Nova."
A short, humorless laugh escaped me. I plucked the sign from its hook and dropped it into the trash bin with a soft thud. "Not my job," I said, my voice flat. "If she wants soup, order it."
But his hand shot out, fingers closing like a vice around my wrist. He yanked me back and shoved me against the door, his body caging me in. "Alright, Nova, that's enough," he said, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Talk is one thing, but packing? Come on. It was a joke. A stupid April Fools' prank. Stop making a scene.
I know you're eager to get married, and I am too. Next year, I promise we'll tie the knot. Okay?"
His alcohol-tinged breath fanned my neck. But this time, his words didn't soothe me. I pushed him away, slapping him across the face.
"Weston, I meant what I said. We're over. I'm never marrying you."
Chapter 3
That slap sobered him up—and even roused Bianca from her drunken stupor on the couch.
She staggered toward me, reeking of alcohol, and swung a clumsy but forceful slap at my face. "Who the hell do you think you are? Nobody hits Weston! So you wanna break up? Big deal! There are plenty of better girls out there... you're not that special!"
A burning pain flared across my cheek.
Tears of pain and fury sprang to my eyes. I raised my own hand to strike back, but Weston's hand shot out, his grip like an iron manacle around my wrist.
He shoved me back hard. The small of my back slammed into the doorknob with a sickening thud, and a sharp, radiating pain exploded through my torso.
He moved to shield Bianca, his expression a mask of annoyance. "She's wasted," he said, his voice tight with impatience. "Don't stoop to her level. Just... go take a walk and cool down. We can talk about this when you've calmed down tomorrow."
I stared at him in disbelief, his indifference cutting like a knife—as if I were just an insignificant stranger. He didn't glance at me again, instead leaning down to soothe Bianca's drunken tantrum, pouring all his tenderness on her.
I dug my nails into my palm, grabbed my suitcases, and left without another word.
I booked a nearby hotel, finally drifting off at dawn. When I woke, my phone blew up with messages—pranks in the friend group, and concerned texts from colleagues asking why I'd skipped work, teasing if I had good news.
A dull ache twisted in my chest. I quickly replied that we'd broken up, exhaustion weighing heavy on me. The notifications kept pinging: some thought I was joking for April Fools', others insisted it was impossible, urging me not to throw a fit just because the proposal hadn't happened.
After all, to everyone else, Weston was gentle, steady, always reliable—a rare catch. But they didn't know the truth.
On our fourth anniversary, he'd faked a proposal setup to lower my guard, letting Bianca scare me with a real snake. On our fifth, he'd used a prank ring she'd bought to "propose," leaving me spending the day at the fire department and hospital, my finger nearly permanently damaged. He was reliable, yes—but never for me.
I'd always blinded myself to these red flags, convincing myself he was good to me, aside from Bianca. But now, sobered up, I realized even a proposal couldn't fix this broken relationship.
I laughed bitterly, opening Instagram out of habit. Beyond the flood of prank posts, Bianca's nine-grid photos stood out: Weston taking her to the movies, winning her stuffed animals at arcade claw machines, playing video games. Even before, he'd always spent April Fools' with her first, then our anniversary—but he'd never taken me to do any of these things.
He'd always said such stuff was for childish couples, a waste of time. "Better to do crafts or watch a movie at home—something meaningful," he'd say. I'd thought it was a sign of maturity, pushing aside all my silly, first-love fantasies. But looking at his bright, carefree smile in the photos, I finally understood: it wasn't the activities that were boring—it was being with me that bored him.
The comments were flooded with "couple goals," all their mutual friends liking the post—more likes than our relationship announcement had gotten.
I was about to turn off my phone when a text popped up from Weston: "Don't misunderstand. I'm just taking her out to cheer her up. Come back when you're free—she wants to apologize."
I frowned, my thumb hovering over a "no thanks" reply. Then, a package delivery notification popped up. It was the anniversary gift I'd ordered for him—sent, of course, to our old address. I stared at the screen. A clean break.
That's what we needed. And I still had the keys to return. Might as well get it over with. A proper goodbye, for closure.
I threw on some clothes and rushed over. The moment I stepped inside, a bucket of foul-smelling liquid was upended over my head, drenching me from head to toe.
A sharp, burning sensation immediately flared across my face and neck.
"Surprise! Happy April Fools' Day!"
