The Tenth Pause

1 Garrett Mercer had invented what he called a “Relationship Hall Pass.” Whenever we hit a rough patch, all it took was a single word texted to my phone: PAUSE. With that one word, he considered himself unilaterally reset to factory settings—unattached, unburdened, and single. The very first time he pulled it, he turned around and took the firm’s newest summer associate to the sold-out indie music festival I had spent three weeks scouring resale forums to get tickets for. When I confronted him, he shoved his illuminated iPhone into my face, his thumb tapping the cold blue text bubble. “Read it, Piper,” he had scoffed, his lips curling in that familiar, patrician amusement. “We’re on a break. Technically, I’m an unattached man. Since when do you get a say in who I spend my weekend with?” Yet during those same timeouts, if I failed to answer his FaceTime within seven minutes, my screen would light up with call after furious call. When I dared to ask if he wasn't technically single, too, his jaw would harden. “What, the minute I give us breathing room, you can’t wait to go find someone else to climb on top of you?” It went on like that until our six-year anniversary. I had spent nights working on custom hand-drawn digital portraits for our lock screens—two stylized halves that lined up into one cohesive piece. I set mine and handed him his phone, asking him to do the same. Garrett took one look at the screen, then placed it face-down on the marble counter with a muffled thud. “Tessa just went through a brutal breakup,” he said, his tone flat and dismissive. “She’s fragile right now. Seeing overt couple nonsense is the last thing she needs. Have a little empathy, Piper.” I refused to back down. I didn’t yell; I just told him, with a steady voice, that six years meant something, and our anniversary wasn't about his subordinate's bruised ego. Right on cue, the tenth PAUSE landed in my notifications twenty minutes later. Less than half an hour after that, Tessa Brooks posted a live photo to her Instagram story. In the video, Garrett was half-kneeling on the plush sectional in her high-rise apartment, carefully brushing crimson polish onto her bare toenails. Resting on the coffee table beside them was the exact Togo leather Hermès Birkin in biscuit that he had once told me was “too vulgar and ostentatious” for me to ever ask for. Her caption read: Timeout called. Borrowing someone else’s boyfriend as an on-call pedicurist isn’t a felony, is it?~ This time, I didn't shed a tear. I didn't type out paragraphs of frantic, wounded text explaining where we had gone wrong. Instead, I opened the voice memo Harper had sent me an hour earlier, typed back a short confirmation, and headed out the door to meet her at a mixer in the West Loop. The bass inside the velvet-curtained lounge vibrated straight through my sternum. The moment I slipped into the corner booth, Harper reached out, unclasped the braided scarlet silk bracelet I’d worn around my wrist for six years, and tossed it into an empty highball glass. A chorus of tipsy cheers erupted from the table. “Piper’s late! Penalty card! Truth or Dare!” I forced a faint, reckless smile. “Dare.” A slip of paper was pulled from the silver bowl: Share a chocolate Pocky stick with the guy to your right until it’s less than an inch long. Photos mandatory. The guy sitting beside me—a boyish architecture graduate student with flushed cheeks—held up the thin biscuit stick, his eyes wide and apologetic. “Strictly for the camera, if that’s okay with you?” I gave a curt nod. Just as the chocolate edge touched my lips, the heavy mahogany door of the booth was kicked open with a violent crack. Garrett stood framed in the opening, his tailored wool coat hanging open, his face dark with fury. “Back the fuck away from her. All of you.” The grad student froze, blinking in disbelief. “Man, chill out. It’s just a party game—” “Don’t make me say it twice if you value your teeth,” Garrett snarled, stepping into the room like he owned every square inch of oxygen. Harper shot to her feet, knocking her stool back. “Garrett, have you lost your goddamn mind?” Brody Palmer, Garrett’s longtime fraternity brother and shadow, stepped into the doorway behind him, sneering as he crossed his arms. “The group chat has been blowing up with pictures of this table, Harper. Did you really think Garrett was just going to sit back and watch his girl get mouth-fed by some college stray?” Garrett reached down and yanked my leather tote off the banquette. “Get up. We’re going home.” I clamped my hands onto the straps, anchoring myself to the leather seat. “Thirty-eight minutes ago, you texted me ‘PAUSE.’ According to your house rules, Garrett, I’m a free agent.” His gaze narrowed, the muscles along his jaw twitching. “A pause is for you to sit at home, check your attitude, and think about how you treat people. It’s not an open invitation to cruise bars for fresh meat.” I let out a short, hollow laugh. “And you kneeling on a rug painting Tessa’s toes after buying her a twelve-thousand-dollar bag—what was that? Deep contemplation?” From behind Brody, a soft silhouette drifted forward. Tessa stepped into view, her fingers delicately tracing the diamond pendant resting in the hollow of her throat. “Piper, please don’t misunderstand,” she said, her voice dripping with practiced innocence. “I was having an awful night, and Garrett was just being a good friend. He felt sorry for me.” Brody let out a derisive bark from the door. “When a guy keeps a girl company, it’s chivalry. When a woman with a ring on her calendar runs off to a nightclub to act like a cheap flirt, it’s called trash looking for a ride.” I didn't dignify Brody with a glance. I kept my eyes locked on Garrett. “Is that what you think, too?” Garrett’s expression turned utterly cold, stripped of whatever frantic warmth had brought him through the door. “Come back with me right now, and I’ll pretend tonight never happened.” My fingers tightened around my glass until the knuckles went bloodless. “What on earth makes you think I’m ever coming back to you?” He looked down at me, his tone dropping into that terrifyingly quiet, matter-of-fact register he used when negotiating contracts. “Because your little brother, Oliver, is sitting in the renal unit at Northwestern waiting for a donor match. And because you still want to marry me.” When I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted rust, refusing to bow my head, Garrett gave an indifferent shrug and leaned in closer, dropping the final hammer: “You want things strictly balanced, Piper? Fine. Tomorrow morning, I’m taking my relationship with Tessa public.” The paper cocktail napkin in my palm tore into wet shreds. “Say that again.” “She’s dealing with a lot of office gossip, and she needs an official status to shut people up,” he said smoothly, as if explaining an administrative transfer. “It’s public relations. Once the dust settles, I’ll still give you the wedding.” Brody chimed in, grinning like a hyena. “Garrett’s put up hundreds of thousands of dollars to keep your sick kid brother on the top-tier organ registry and private therapies. Taking a little hit to your pride won't kill you, Piper.” Harper’s face flushed crimson with rage. She seized my arm, dragging me toward the side exit. “Get your hands off her! Come on, Piper. You don’t owe this sociopath another second of your life.” By seven the next morning, my phone began vibrating against my nightstand like an angry hornet. I was standing in the downstairs corridor of the hospital when the notifications cascaded down the screen. Garrett had posted a photo to his main grid—their hands entwined over an expensive brunch table, their matching Cartier bands catching the morning light. His caption was four words: Introducing my better half. Within ninety seconds, my Aunt Brenda’s number flashed across the display. The moment I swiped to answer, her shrill voice blasted through the speaker: “Piper! What the hell is going on? One of Garrett’s friends sent screenshots to the entire family group! They’re saying he’s had a real socialite girlfriend this whole time and you’ve been acting like some desperate, gold-digging side piece! Call him right now and apologize! If he cuts off Oliver’s supplemental medical trust, your brother dies, do you hear me?!” I leaned against the icy, white-tiled wall of the hospital wing, swallowing back the acid in my throat. “Don’t you dare tell Ollie. If a single word of this reaches his room, Brenda, I swear to God I’ll never forgive you.” I hung up, wiped my face with the sleeve of my sweater, and pushed open the heavy door to Room 412. Nineteen-year-old Oliver was propped up against his pillows, his skin pale and translucent, with dark purple hollows beneath his eyes. When he saw me, his face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. He fumbled beneath his blanket and pulled out two intricately braided red cord bracelets, each fitted with a small, hand-carved jade donut. “Piper, look,” he beamed, his voice raspy from yesterday’s dialysis. “I finished them. When you and Garrett get married in the fall, you guys wear these. They’re supposed to keep you safe together. Forever.” The air left my lungs in a sharp, agonizing pinch. My nose burned. I forced the widest smile I could muster, tucked the hair behind his ears, and said, “They’re gorgeous, Ollie. Let me go wash my hands and get us some tea, okay?” I stepped out into the stairwell, pulled out my phone, and called Garrett. “Take down the post,” I said, my voice shaking with pure adrenaline. “Oliver has stage-four congestive heart failure on top of his kidney failure. If he sees that, the stress could kill him. Delete it.” Garrett’s response was ice-cold. “I’m not deleting anything. If you want to talk about this like an adult, come back to the duplex. We’ll settle it face-to-face.” I caught a cab across town to the Lincoln Park duplex—the condo I had emptied my entire savings account to put the down payment on, the place I had painted with my own hands. When I pushed the front door open, the breath died in my throat. The framed botanical prints I had spent months collecting had been stripped from the foyer wall. In their place hung an oversized, white-framed studio portrait of Garrett and Tessa, dressed in full formal wedding couture. And on the hardwood floor by the French doors, my large-scale canvas—an oil painting I had spent two weeks working on until four in the morning for a national gallery competition—had been dragged off its easel, laid flat, and covered in blue plastic puppy training pads. Tessa’s miniature apricot poodle was squatting right in the center of the wet oil, relieving itself. A violent tremor racked my body. I lunged forward, grabbed the leather-bound guest album from the coffee table, and hurled it against the wall. “Get out! Get the fuck out of my house!” Tessa let out a high-pitched shriek, throwing herself backward into Garrett’s chest. “Garrett, please! Maybe I should just pack my bags... Piper is technically on the deed. It’s natural she hates me...” Garrett immediately wrapped an arm around her waist, shielding her behind his broad frame, his eyes turning to flint as he glared at me. “If you can’t show basic civility under this roof, then you’re the one leaving, Piper. This unit gets the best morning light in the building. I’ve already decided it’s going to be our marital suite.” I pointed a shaking finger at the hardwood beneath our shoes, my vision swimming with red. “Garrett Mercer, I paid every single cent of the down payment on this home! My name is the only name on the mortgage and the title! You are telling me to vacate my own property for your mistress?!” Garrett didn't even blink. He adjusted the cuff of his linen shirt, his voice devoid of humanity. “Does it matter whose name is on a piece of paper, Piper? If you don't pack your things and walk out that door right now, I will instruct my family’s foundation to pull every dime of Oliver’s specialized dialysis funding and his experimental immunosuppressants before noon.” I stood there, my teeth digging so deep into my lip that the metallic taste filled my mouth again. For Ollie. For my brother’s heartbeat. I swallowed the humiliation, dragged two suitcases out of the closet, packed what I could carry, and walked out into the rain toward Harper’s apartment. The following afternoon, Garrett texted me an address in the Gold Coast. Come to my mother’s estate at six, the message read. We’ll clear up the misunderstanding with the family, and I’ll hand you the cashier’s check for Oliver’s next round of treatment. When I arrived at the Mercer family brownstone, the heavy oak doors were already ajar. In the center of the drawing room, Tessa sat tucked against Garrett on the velvet sofa, daintily spearing slices of melon from a crystal platter. Mrs. Eleanor Mercer was perched on the armchair opposite them, clutching Tessa’s hand with an expression of glowing adoration. “Thank heaven,” Eleanor was sighing, her diamonds catching the chandelier light. “Garrett finally cut ties with that little art-school nobody. Carrying around a chronically sick, blood-sucking brother like a lead weight... absolute gutter trash.” Eleanor paused, her eyes drifting toward the foyer where I stood soaked from the drizzle. Her manicured brows pinched together. “And who is this?” Garrett didn't look at me. He took a sip of his bourbon, his tone clinical and remote. “She’s the temporary personal assistant the studio hired to run errands and carry Tessa’s bags. Basically domestic staff.” The room seemed to tilt beneath my boots. I watched, frozen, as Eleanor reached into her pocket, pulled out the custom platinum engagement ring Garrett and I had designed together—the one engraved on the inside with PH, my initials—and casually dropped it into a silver trash can by the end table. “Garrett, darling, make sure you take Tessa down to Tiffany tomorrow. I won't have an heirloom associated with bad luck on my future daughter-in-law's hand.” I spun on my heel and bolted out the double doors into the street. My phone buzzed violently in my trench coat pocket. A push notification from a local news aggregator flashed across the glass: [LOCAL SCANDAL] Rising Chicago Illustrator ‘Piper’ Accused of Extorting High-Society Mercer Heir: Weaponizing Sick Brother to Trap Billionaire Ex. Before I could even process the headline, my ringtone screamed through my earbuds. It was the head charge nurse from the cardiac intensive care unit. “Ms. Hayes! You need to get here immediately!” the nurse’s voice was borderline hysterical over the sound of blaring medical alarms. “Three internet live-streamers just forced their way past the floor doors into Oliver’s room! They’re shouting at him, calling him a parasitic parasite! His monitors are going off—he’s in acute ventricular fibrillation! We're crashing!” “No, no, no!” I screamed, throwing myself into the path of an oncoming yellow cab. “I’m coming! Don't let him die!” I sprinted through the hospital lobby, my boots skidding against the linoleum as I reached the fourth-floor ICU. Standing right outside the frosted glass of Room 412 were Tessa Brooks and Garrett’s younger brother, Trent Mercer. Trent was leaning casually against the hallway handrail, twirling a certified marriage license in his fingers. When he saw me, he offered a lazy, contemptuous shrug. “Relax, Piper. I just brought the marriage certificate Garrett and Tessa signed down at City Hall this afternoon to show the kid. Thought he ought to know his big sister should stop throwing herself at a married man. Who knew the little weakling would take one look at the paperwork and start coughing up blood?” Just then, heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. Garrett arrived, breathless. His very first instinct wasn't to look at the crash team inside the room—it was to pull a sniffling, wide-eyed Tessa into his chest, rubbing her shoulders. He turned toward me, his brow furrowed in irritation. “Piper, calm down. Tessa only came here out of the goodness of her heart to check on him—” The heavy double doors of the resuscitation bay swung open. The attending physician stepped out, his surgical mask hanging loose around his neck, his eyes hollowed with exhaustion. He looked at me, then slowly, irrevocably, lowered his head. “Ms. Hayes... I am so sorry. We did four rounds of epinephrine. We couldn't get a pulse back. He’s gone.” Inside the room, through the glass, a nurse was already pulling a crisp white sheet up over my brother’s face. Garrett’s entire face drained of color in an instant. A sickening thud echoed through the corridor as his knees gave out, his hands trembling as he reached out toward me across the floor. “Piper... oh God, Piper, I didn't know... I swear to God I didn't know—” “GET AWAY FROM HIM!” I grabbed a heavy stainless-steel instrument tray from the nurse’s cart and swung it with every ounce of muscle in my body. The metal edge cracked violently across Garrett’s forehead. Blood instantly welled from the gash, spilling down over his eyebrow and soaking into his pristine white collar. I fell over Oliver’s body, clutching the frozen sheet to my chest, letting out a raw, shredded scream that tore my throat to ribbons: “Garrett Mercer, as long as I draw breath, we are dead to each other! You murdered my brother! I will make every single one of you pay for this with your lives!”