Chapter 4

After I finished crying, I went into the study.

His old iPad was sitting on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, covered in a thin layer of dust.

He rarely used it because he said the screen was too small. Once he got a new one, this one was completely abandoned.

I plugged it into the charger, waited for it to power up, and logged into his iCloud.

He had given me his password years ago—it was the date of our first anniversary.

Once the cloud synced, I opened the photo library.

The first photo was from New Year's Eve.

Marcus was wrapping his arms around that woman, standing in a crowded square.

Fireworks illuminated their faces. She was laughing, looking back at him, and he was kissing the top of her head.

I remembered that New Year's Eve. Marcus had told me he had to spend it with his parents.

At midnight, he had sent me a video of the fireworks outside his parents' house.

His voice had whispered over the clip: “Happy New Year, baby. See you tomorrow.”

I thought he was being a good son.

I had saved that video. I had even posted it on Instagram.

I kept scrolling through the photos. It was filled with pictures of their trips together.

Over and over again. Beaches, mountains, cozy cabin getaways, small towns.

Every single trip lined up perfectly with the dates he told me he was traveling for business.

I closed the gallery. I opened his Snapchat messages. The logs with her started four years ago.

Four years ago, we had already been together for three years. Four years ago, I had already proposed to him multiple times. I was trying so hard to convince him back then.

I was telling him about the meaning of marriage, about how natural it was for two people who loved each other to take the next step.

And back then, Marcus was just starting to text her.

At first, it was just casual banter. Then came the dinner dates, then the weekend trips, and then he started calling her "sweetheart" in the chat.

I cross-referenced the timelines.

Marcus had known her for four years.

They had been officially "together" for six months.

And those six months were the exact six months I had spent planning our wedding.

I sat on the floor, the cold blue light of the tablet screen reflecting on my face.

During those six months, I had saved endless venue photos, made budget spreadsheets, drafted guest lists, and compared catering menus from three different hotels.

Every time I showed him my plans, he would casually flip through them and say:

"Let's wait a bit. There's no rush."

Or: "Work is so stressful right now, babe. Give me some breathing room."

I thought he was genuinely stressed.

But now, looking at their chat logs, they were choosing wedding venues together. They were picking out wedding dresses and rings together.

I sat in the quiet house all day. At 5 PM, the front door clicked open.

Marcus walked in, carrying a paper bag from a bakery.

"I got that cake you said you wanted to try. I passed by the shop today and remembered."

He kicked off his shoes, set the bag in the kitchen, and came over to sit on the couch. He turned to look at me.

"Hey, what’s wrong? You look pale."

I stared at him. Seven years. I thought I knew every line on this face.

"Marcus, have you ever genuinely wanted to marry someone?"

He froze for a fraction of a second. Then he laughed, completely natural.

"Of course I do, Chloe. Otherwise, I wouldn't have kept you on the hook for seven years."

He used the word kept you on the hook.

Like these seven years were just something he was casually wasting, and he was dragging me down with him.

I didn't cry. I thought I would, but my eyes were completely dry.

He was still looking at me, a hint of confusion in his eyes.

"Why are you asking that all of a sudden? What's going on in that head of yours?"

I shook my head. "Nothing. Just a random thought."

Marcus reached out and patted my hand.

"Don't overthink it, babe. You know I love you the most. Are you hungry? I'll make dinner."

He stood up and headed into the kitchen. Soon, the clinking of pots and pans started.

I sat on the couch, lit up my phone screen, and stared at that photo of them under the New Year's Eve fireworks.

The one where he was kissing the top of her head.

He had never kissed me like that.

He was gentle with me, he was attentive, and he fulfilled every duty of a boyfriend flawlessly.

But that raw, instinctual affection? He had never given it to me.

From the kitchen, he started humming. A light, upbeat tune. I recognized the song—it was what he hummed whenever he was in a great mood.

I locked my phone and slid it into my pocket.

His voice drifted out of the kitchen. "Chloe, do you want something heavy and spicy tonight, or something light and comforting?"

I paused. "Light, please."

"You got it."

I leaned back against the couch, staring toward the kitchen.

I didn't know what I was going to do next. But one thing was crystal clear.

He said he had kept me on the hook for seven years.

Well, it was time for me to get off the hook.