Chapter 3

Packing up my things didn't take long.

Our framed photos, the red silk bedsheets, the matching couple's pajamas.

Once those were boxed up, the place was basically empty.

Except, while stripping the mattress, I found a single strand of hair.

It was bright pastel pink.

My hair was long, straight, and jet black. The only person in his circle with pink hair was Lauren.

Wesley had brought her here.

To the marital bed I hadn't even slept in yet. She had slept on it first.

A freezing chill ran up my spine, making me shudder.

Without a word, I dragged the entire sheet set down to the dumpster and threw it away, pink hair and all.

I waited for Wesley to show up so I could hand over the deed and the bank card.

Ten days passed. He never replied, and he never came.

With only four days left until the wedding, my mother called, her voice sharp with worry.

"What is Wesley playing at?"

"If he doesn't love you, why won't he let you go? Thirteen years, Clara! If he cared about your well-being even a little, he never would've dragged this out for so long!"

"He knows how much you want children. Yet he kept pushing the wedding back until you were thirty-five. Does he have any idea how hard pregnancy and recovery are at this age?"

I didn't say a word.

Because every word she said was the brutal truth.

After a moment of hesitation, I gathered the property documents and the bank card and headed to Wesley's office.

He wasn't there.

In the end, Lauren was the one who met me in the lobby.

"Mr. Brooks is taking personal time off," she said, tilting her head. "Only a few select people can reach his private line right now."

I lowered my gaze.

No wonder none of my texts had gone through.

Lauren’s sweet, honeyed voice floated over.

"Coincidentally, I happen to be one of those few people."

"And you aren't."

She drove me to an upscale private hot spring resort, stopping outside Private Suite 1808.

Just as I reached for the door handle, Lauren stepped in front of me.

She wore that same innocent, wide-eyed smile.

"Clara, I know you came all this way to nag Wesley about handwriting invitations again. But maybe you should take a look at this first?"

She flipped her phone around.

It was an open chat log between her and Wesley.

A message from him read:

[If only I had met you a few years earlier...]

Inside the private room, Wesley was already on the same topic.

One of his groomsmen was asking him, "Bro, how does it feel getting hitched? Excited?"

Wesley scoffed. "Do you get excited when your left hand holds your right hand?"

"We've been together for so long, she's basically family. There’s zero passion left. Honestly, if my parents weren't breathing down my neck, I would've pushed it back another couple of years."

Someone let out a low whistle.

"You're both thirty-five and you still want to stall? Aren't you worried she'll walk?"

"Worried about what?" Wesley chuckled, sounding completely relaxed. "She gave me thirteen years of her life. We lived together for a decade. What other guy would take her now?"

"A thirty-five-year-old woman has no leverage in the dating pool. Leave me, and she won't find anyone better."

"No matter how long I drag it out, she has no choice but to wait for me."

His tone was dripping with arrogance.

Lauren whispered beside me, "He stopped loving you a long time ago. Otherwise, why would he wait thirteen years to marry you?"

My hand rested on the brass doorknob.

Suddenly, I had no desire to open that door.

Some goodbyes simply didn't need a conversation.

I shoved the manila folder into Lauren's chest.

"Give this to him."

I turned on my heel and walked away without looking back.

That night, I received the first text from Wesley in ten days:

[Send me the venue address and what time I need to be there.]

I didn't reply. I blocked his number.