I stared at the cream-colored envelope on my coffee table, unable to bring myself to touch it again. The elegant calligraphy that had once seemed so beautiful now mocked me with its perfection. Daniel had always insisted we use a professional calligrapher for our wedding invitations—something I'd deemed an unnecessary expense when we were saving for our future.
Money was no longer a concern for him.
I took another sip of cold coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. Three hours had passed since I'd opened that envelope, and my apartment still felt like it was spinning. A wedding invitation. From Daniel. To his wedding with Sophia.
My phone buzzed against the table, rattling the invitation and making me flinch. My sister's name flashed on the screen.
Did it arrive? Ava's text read.
I glanced at the invitation again. The embossed golden letters announced the joyous union of Daniel Whitman and Sophia Reeves, to be celebrated at the Rosewood Estate—the same venue Daniel and I had once visited together, where he had squeezed my hand and whispered that we would have our own perfect day there someday.
Yes, I typed back.
Are you okay? came Ava's immediate response.
I let out a hollow laugh that echoed in my empty apartment. Was I okay? My fiancé of three years had not only moved on when I'd postponed our wedding to help with my parents' mounting medical bills, but had chosen to marry my closest friend since college. The betrayal cut deeper than I could have imagined—not just from Daniel, but from Sophia, who had held me while I cried after telling Daniel we needed to delay the wedding.
I'm fine, I lied, then set my phone face down on the table.
I had known about their relationship, of course. San Francisco's tech social circle was too small to keep such things secret. But seeing the invitation made it real in a way that whispers and averted glances at industry events hadn't. Within months of our breakup, Daniel and Sophia had become inseparable, their relationship quickly evolving from casual dating to serious commitment. Now, barely a year later, they were getting married.
A year. It had taken Daniel less than a year to replace all the plans we'd made together.
My phone buzzed again, persistently. This time it was ringing. Ava wasn't going to let me stew alone.
"Hey," I answered, trying to sound normal.
"Don't 'hey' me like everything's fine." Ava's voice was sharp with concern. "I'm coming over. Have you eaten today?"
I glanced at the untouched protein bar on my counter. "I'm not hungry."
"I'll bring Thai food. And wine. Lots of wine."
Before I could protest, Ava had hung up. I sighed and tossed my phone onto the couch cushion beside me. My gaze drifted back to the invitation, to the glossy engagement photo tucked inside. Daniel and Sophia beamed at the camera, her head nestled against his shoulder—the same way I used to pose with him.
The urge to tear the photo into tiny pieces was overwhelming, but something stopped me. Perhaps it was the small, practical voice in my head reminding me that I would have to face them both at upcoming industry events, where everyone would whisper and pity the woman left behind. Or perhaps it was simply fatigue—the bone-deep exhaustion that had settled into my body since the day Daniel had told me he couldn't wait any longer for me to be "ready" to prioritize our relationship.
As if caring for my parents after my father's stroke and my mother's subsequent depression was a choice rather than a necessity.
I stood up, my legs stiff from sitting too long, and moved to the window. The San Francisco skyline glittered in the early evening light, indifferent to my pain. Somewhere out there, Daniel and Sophia were probably celebrating another milestone, surrounded by friends who had once been mine too.
My phone buzzed again with another text from Ava.
Don't check social media. I mean it, Maya.
Too late. I had already spent hours scrolling through Instagram, torturing myself with endless streams of engagement photos and congratulatory messages flooding Daniel and Sophia's profiles. The yacht party where Daniel had proposed. Sophia flashing her enormous diamond ring—larger than the one he'd given me. Their parents celebrating together at an engagement dinner at Quince, the Michelin-starred restaurant where Daniel had taken me for our second anniversary.
The apartment suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. I grabbed my keys and jacket, needing to escape before Ava arrived with her well-intentioned comfort and inevitable outrage on my behalf. I needed to breathe, to walk until my feet hurt more than my heart.
But as my hand reached for the doorknob, I hesitated, struck by a sudden awareness of how I must look. I caught my reflection in the small mirror by the door—puffy eyes, unwashed hair pulled into a messy bun, the same sweatpants I'd had on for three days. If I went out like this and ran into anyone I knew, it would only confirm what they all probably thought: poor Maya Chen, falling apart while Daniel moved on to bigger and better things.
My phone buzzed again.
ETA 20 minutes. Don't you dare leave your apartment. I know you.
I sighed and let my hand drop from the doorknob. My sister had always been able to read my mind, even from across the city. I trudged back to the couch and sank down, staring again at the wedding invitation.
"I hope you'll join us for this special day," it read at the bottom, as if my presence would somehow validate their betrayal.
The audacity was almost impressive. Almost.
---
I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, someone was pounding on my door with what sounded like their entire fist.
"Maya! Open up or I'm using my key!" Ava called out.
I dragged myself off the couch and shuffled to the door, unlocking it just as Ava was about to make good on her threat. She stood there, arms loaded with bags of takeout and two bottles of expensive wine tucked precariously under her arm. Her expression shifted from determination to sympathy when she saw me.
"Oh, honey," she said softly, pushing past me into the apartment.
"I told you I'm fine," I muttered, closing the door behind her.
Ava set everything down on the kitchen counter and turned to face me, hands on her hips. At twenty-four, my younger sister was everything I wasn't—bold, outspoken, and completely unapologetic. Where I had followed our parents' wishes and pursued a practical career in design, Ava had rebelled, dropping out of business school to start her own fashion blog that had somehow turned into a lucrative career as a social media consultant.
"You're about as fine as roadkill," she said, taking in my appearance. "When was the last time you showered?"
I shrugged. "What day is it?"
"Friday," she answered, already moving around my kitchen with the familiarity of someone who had spent countless hours there. She pulled wine glasses from the cabinet and began unpacking containers of food. "And don't even think about saying you're not hungry. You're going to eat, and then we're going to talk about how we're going to handle this situation."
"There's nothing to handle," I said, sinking onto one of the barstools at my kitchen island. "They're getting married. End of story."
Ava uncorked one of the wine bottles with practiced efficiency and poured two generous glasses. "That's not the end of the story. That's the beginning of the 'Maya Chen rises from the ashes and shows those backstabbing jerks what they lost' story."
I accepted the glass she pushed toward me and took a large swallow. The wine was good—much better than the cheap bottles I usually bought for myself. "I don't have any ashes to rise from. I have a design job I'm barely hanging onto because I've been distracted by Mom and Dad's situation, an apartment I can barely afford, and apparently, no real friends since they all seem to have chosen Team Daniel and Sophia."
"You have me," Ava said firmly, opening a container of pad thai and setting it in front of me with a fork. "And you have more talent in your little finger than Daniel has in his entire body. Not to mention you're ten times the person Sophia will ever be. Remember who helped her build her entire portfolio website when she was trying to get that gallery job? Who stayed up for three nights straight coding that mess because she couldn't afford to hire someone?"
I winced at the memory. Sophia had been so grateful then, calling me her savior, her best friend forever. Forever had apparently lasted until Daniel became available.
"None of that matters now," I said, reluctantly taking a bite of food. It tasted like nothing, though I knew intellectually that the restaurant was one of my favorites.
Ava pulled the wedding invitation closer, scrutinizing it with narrowed eyes. "November 15th. That's eight months away. Plenty of time."
"Plenty of time for what?"
"For you to show up with someone so spectacular that Daniel realizes what an idiot he was for letting you go." Ava's eyes gleamed with mischief, a look I'd learned to fear since childhood.
I shook my head. "I'm not playing that game. I'm not even going."
"Of course you're going," Ava said, as if this was already decided. "Not showing up is exactly what they expect. They sent this invitation as a formality, thinking you'd decline and they could tell everyone they tried to include you. You have to go, and you have to bring a date who makes Daniel look like the mid-level tech bro he really is."
I took another large gulp of wine. "I haven't dated anyone since Daniel. I wouldn't even know where to start."
"That's why you have me," Ava said confidently, pulling out her phone. She scrolled through it for a moment before turning the screen toward me. "Look at this guy. He's one of the youngest people on Forbes' 30 Under 30 list this year. MIT graduate, started his own medical tech company that's already valued at over half a billion dollars, and most importantly—" she swiped to another photo, "—he looks like he walked off a GQ cover shoot."
I squinted at the phone. The man was undeniably handsome—tall with dark hair, intense blue eyes, and the kind of confident posture that came from old money or extraordinary success. Or both.
"What's your point? Am I supposed to track down San Francisco's most eligible bachelor and convince him to be my revenge date?"
Ava rolled her eyes. "Don't be dramatic. I'm not suggesting you actually date Ethan Blackwood."
"Then what are you suggesting?" I asked, though part of me already knew and dreaded the answer.
"I'm suggesting we create the illusion that you're dating someone like him." Ava's eyes were bright with excitement now. "You're a graphic designer with access to the best AI image generators through your firm. I'm a social media expert. Between us, we could create a believable online relationship with someone impressive enough to make Daniel and Sophia choke on their wedding cake."
I stared at her, waiting for the punchline. It didn't come.
"You want me to create a fake boyfriend? With AI?" I asked incredulously. "That's insane. And probably illegal."
"Not a specific real person," Ava clarified, refilling my wine glass. "A composite. Someone who doesn't actually exist but could. We create the perfect man, build a digital footprint, and then suddenly, Maya Chen is off the market and dating up—way up—from Daniel Whitman."
I shook my head, though the wine was making the idea seem less absurd by the minute. "Even if we could do that—which we can't—what happens when I show up to the wedding alone?"
Ava grinned, a plan clearly already forming in her mind. "By then, we'll figure something out. Maybe you'll have met someone real. Or maybe your amazing new boyfriend will be 'traveling for business.' The point is to show everyone now that you've moved on spectacularly."
"This is crazy," I muttered, but found myself not immediately shutting down the idea. The thought of Daniel and Sophia seeing me with someone successful and handsome—someone who made Daniel look average in comparison—held a certain vindictive appeal I wasn't proud of.
"Maybe," Ava conceded, "but tell me it wouldn't feel good to have Daniel wondering if he made a massive mistake."
I didn't answer, but took another drink of wine instead, feeling the warmth spread through my chest. The hurt was still there, raw and aching, but alongside it now burned something new—something harder and sharper than simple grief.
"One post," Ava urged, sensing my wavering resistance. "We make one perfect image, test the waters. If it feels wrong or gets complicated, we delete it and forget the whole thing."
I should have said no. I should have told her I was better than this, more mature than this childish revenge fantasy. Instead, I heard myself asking, "How would we even start?"
Ava's triumphant smile told me I'd already lost the battle. She reached for her bag and pulled out her laptop. "First, we need to give him a name. Something strong but sophisticated..."
"This is a terrible idea," I said, but I was already moving around the counter to look over her shoulder.
"The best ideas usually are," Ava replied cheerfully, opening a new document. "Now, what should we call your new billionaire boyfriend?"