DOUBLE LIFE - Breadcrumbing

The black dress still fit perfectly. I stood in my office bathroom, reapplying lipstick and trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach. Eight o'clock. Le Cirque. The choice loomed before me like a door waiting to be opened.

My phone lit up with a text from Mike: "Thinking of making that pasta you like for dinner. Should I wait for you?"

I stared at the message, guilt, and anticipation wrestling in my chest. Finally, I typed, "Working late tonight. Big client presentation tomorrow. Don't wait up."

The response came quickly: "No problem! I'll leave you leftovers. Knock that presentation out of the park!"

His unconditional support, once endearing, now felt like a weight. I tucked my phone away and checked my reflection one last time. The woman in the mirror looked elegant and ambitious—exactly the kind of woman who belonged at Le Cirque with James Crawford.

Le Cirque's interior was all crystal and soft lighting. James was already there, of course, rising from his table with practiced grace. His eyes traveled appreciatively over my dress before meeting mine.

"You made the right choice," he said, pulling out my chair.

"It's just dinner," I replied, but we both knew it wasn't.

The evening unfolded like a scene from a movie I'd always wanted to star in. James ordered wine in perfect French, discussed art collections and summer homes in the Hamptons, and looked at me like I was the only person in the room.

"You know," he said, swirling his wine, "I've been thinking about your marketing strategy from the merger meeting. Have you ever considered private equity?"

The conversation flowed from business to pleasure and back again, each topic highlighting the vast difference between this world and the one I'd left behind. No Pokemon cards here. No discussions about video game release dates or comic book movies.

My phone buzzed periodically—Mike sending his usual stream of consciousness texts about his day. Each time, I turned the phone face down, just a little more quickly than the last.

"Another message from the game shop?" James asked, his tone carefully neutral.

"It's not important."

He nodded, understanding in his eyes. "You know, Sarah, there's a charity gala next weekend. The kind of event where careers are made and connections forged. I'd love for you to be my guest."

The invitation hung between us, heavy with possibility. Before I could respond, my phone lit up again—this time with a photo from Mike. He'd arranged the pasta he'd made into a heart shape.

James caught my expression. "The hardest part about evolution is what we leave behind."

Later that night, I found myself standing outside Mike's building again, key in hand. The pasta would be cold by now, and the heart shape congealed into an unrecognizable mass. My phone showed three missed calls and a string of increasingly worried texts.

I should go up. Explain. Make excuses.

Instead, I called James.

"I was hoping you would," he answered on the first ring.

"About that gala..." I watched the lights in Mike's window, knowing he was probably still awake, waiting. "I'd love to attend."

"Excellent. I'll have my driver pick you up at seven." A pause. "From your office, I assume?"

"Yes," I said softly. "From my office."

I ended the call and finally went upstairs. Mike was on the couch, perking up as I entered.

"There you are! How was the presentation prep?"

"Fine," I said, avoiding his eyes. "Just fine."

The next week became an exercise in compartmentalization. By day, I was still Mike's girlfriend—responding to his texts with practiced affection, making the right noises about his gaming tournaments, and pretending to care about his latest rare find.

By night, I was someone else entirely. James and I met for "business dinners" that felt more like courtship. He introduced me to his world with the precision of a master curator—exclusive restaurants, private clubs, people whose names I'd only seen in Forbes.

"You're a natural at this," he said one evening at a rooftop bar, watching me charm a group of venture capitalists. "It's like watching a butterfly emerge from its chrysalis."

The metaphor wasn't lost on me. Each day, the gap between my two lives grew wider. Mike's world felt increasingly like a shabby theater production—cheap props and amateur actors playing at life while the real show happened elsewhere.

"Babe, you've seemed distracted lately," Mike said one morning, catching me checking my phone for messages from James. "Everything okay at work?"

"Just busy. The promotion comes with more responsibility."

"I know, but..." He hesitated. "You're hardly ever home anymore. And when you are, you're not really here, you know?"

I looked up at him, ready with another excuse, but the concern in his eyes made me pause. For a moment, I saw him clearly—the kind, genuine man who'd loved me before promotions and power lunches. The man who still made me grilled cheese at midnight and arranged pasta into hearts.

Then my phone buzzed with a message from James about the upcoming gala, and the moment shattered.

"I'm fine," I said, gathering my things. "Just stressed. Don't wait up tonight—another late meeting."

The lie came easily now, practiced as a dance step. Mike nodded, accepting it like he accepted everything else—with unwavering trust that had become its own kind of burden.

The gala was approaching, and with it, a growing sense that I was reaching a point of no return. James sent over a designer gown—midnight blue, perfectly tailored. The price tag would have made Mike faint.

"You can't keep doing this forever," Rachel said over lunch after I'd confided in her about James. "The nice thing about crossroads is that they force you to choose a direction."

"I'm not ready to choose," I replied, but we both knew that wasn't true. I was choosing every day, with every unanswered text from Mike, every dinner with James, and every lie that built the wall between my past and my potential future.

The night before the gala, I came home late to find Mike asleep, surrounded by notes and job applications.

"What's all this?" I asked when he stirred.

"Oh, hey," he yawned. "I was just... you know, looking at some corporate positions. Maybe it's time for a change. For us."

The papers scattered around him were highlighted and annotated—he'd really been trying. My throat tightened.

"You don't have to do that," I said.

"I want to. I want to be someone you can be proud of."

The words hit me like a physical blow. On my phone, a message from James glowed: "Can't wait to see you tomorrow night. You're going to take their breath away."

I looked at Mike's earnest face, then at the evidence of his efforts spread across the coffee table. He was trying to change for me while I was already changing into someone who might not want him at all.

"I need some air," I said abruptly, grabbing my purse.

"Sarah? It's midnight..."

But I was already out the door, James's number dialing on my phone, my heart racing with the kind of clarity that only comes when you realize you're already past the point of no return.

The gala wasn't just tomorrow night. It was my audition for a new life. And somewhere between the midnight blue dress and Mike's scattered job applications, I'd already decided to take the part.