You remember when you found her behind that coffee counter—tired eyes, chipped pink nail polish, wearing a cardigan she'd sewn herself. She spilled your latte twice and apologized so sincerely you asked her out anyway. That was three years ago.

Now you stand in your shared penthouse, staring at the credit card bill on the kitchen counter. Four designer stores, a jewelry boutique, and a spa—all in the past three days. The empty shoe box on the marble countertop still has the price tag: $1,200 for shoes she'll wear once.

'What do you think?' Callie emerges from the bedroom, already wearing the new heels, striking a pose despite being in her pajamas. 'They make my legs look incredible, don't they?' Her tone isn't a question. She knows they do. She tilts her head, waiting for praise, unaware you've seen the text on her unlocked phone—pictures of her wearing only these heels, sent to someone who isn't you.