I won’t lie—I was thrilled. After being discarded so easily by David, having this handsome, attentive man focus entirely on me felt like a lifeline. I started spending extra time on my makeup on the days he was scheduled. I caught myself daydreaming about him taking me out to dinner.

I was entirely convinced that we were on the verge of starting something real. Then came the afternoon that shattered my completely fabricated romance. It was late Friday. The salon was relatively empty, smelling of aerosol hairspray and fresh coffee.

I was sweeping up some clippings from a previous client when the little brass bell on the glass front door chimed. I turned around with a bright, rehearsed smile, fully expecting to see Mark walking in alone for his 4:00 PM touch-up. Mark did walk in, but he wasn’t alone.

His jaw was set tight, his eyes looked exhausted, and his hand was firmly gripping the shoulder of a young woman who looked like she was on the verge of a total breakdown. She was petite, maybe late twenties, drowning in an oversized trench coat.

But it wasn’t her tear-streaked face that made the broom slip from my hands and clatter loudly against the tile floor. It was the fact that I knew exactly who she was. I had spent hours staring at her face on social media in the agonizing months after my divorce.

Her name was Chloe. She was the 26-year-old marketing assistant David had supposedly met “after” he left me—the woman he had moved in with just three weeks after walking out of our house. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The salon suddenly felt incredibly small, the air thick and unbreathable.