Chapter 4

Three days before the scheduled wedding.

Brandon opened the closet to look for a dress shirt and paused.

"Where are your clothes? Why is this half of the closet empty?"

I was sitting in the living room drafting plans, not even raising my head. "Sent them to the dry cleaner."

He didn't think twice about it, grabbed a jacket, and headed for the door. Right before stepping out, he turned around.

"Oh, by the way. Make sure you propose a toast to Vanessa on the wedding day. She doesn't have many friends since returning. Be gracious so she doesn't feel left out."

I put down my stylus and looked at him.

"Why on earth would I toast her?"

Brandon turned, his irritation obvious.

"She's my friend. What kind of attitude is that?"

"She's the dream girl you chased for four years. You think it's appropriate for your fiancée to toast her at our wedding?"

He scowled, his tone dropping cold.

"Chloe, here you go again. How many times do I have to tell you? I don't feel that way about Vanessa anymore. You're you, she's her."

"Then tell her not to come to the wedding."

"The invitation is already sent! How do you expect me to uninvite her?"

He checked his watch.

"I don't have time to argue with you about this. Vanessa’s art gallery opens the day after tomorrow, and I have to supervise the venue setup."

The door slammed shut.

I stayed where I was, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway.

An art gallery opening, and he cared more than anyone.

Meanwhile, I hadn't even had a single fitting for my wedding dress.

At three that afternoon, the doorbell rang.

A delivery courier carried in two massive bouquets of white lilies. The flowers were in full, lush bloom, their fragrance saturating the entire apartment.

I stepped back instantly, my throat constricting.

The card read: *Wishing you a successful exhibition. —Brandon.*

I stared at the card for three seconds as my nose began to itch and red hives flared across my skin.

I had told him about my severe allergy to lilies during our very first year of dating.

Back then, he had aggressively intercepted a bouquet sent by one of my coworkers, remembering every detail.

Now, he had personally ordered two giant bundles delivered to our home.

I put on a mask, shoved both bouquets and their vases into heavy-duty trash bags, and dragged them down to the dumpster.

Back upstairs, the hives had spread from my arms to my neck, burning and itching fiercely.

I swallowed two Claritin pills, collapsed on the sofa, and waited for the medication to kick in.

Once the swelling eased, I stood up and walked into the bedroom.

Most of my things were already gone, leaving only the final essentials.

I packed everything into two suitcases and called the final moving van.

By the time everything was moved into my new place, it was nine o'clock at night.

I had rented a modest, $800 studio apartment forty minutes away from Grandview Court.

There was nothing inside except a twin bed and a bare wardrobe, but lying on that firm mattress, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace.

My phone rang. It was Brandon.

"Where are you? I came home and the place is empty."

"I'm at a friend's place. I'm not coming home tonight."

He fell quiet for two seconds.

"What are you throwing a fit over now? The wedding is in three days. Do you have any idea how bad it looks for you to run off like this?"

"I'm not throwing a fit. I just wanted to catch up with a friend."

"Chloe, drop the attitude. Come home and be my bride, and don't make me repeat myself."

His voice carried a sickening condescension, as if letting me be his bride was the ultimate charity.

"Okay," I said.

Just that single word.

The second I ended the call, I opened my contacts, found his name, and tapped the settings.

Blocked.

Then I blocked his number, his texts, and every possible channel he could use to reach me.

When that was done, I laid my phone beside my pillow and stared at the yellowish ceiling light.

Three years ago, when he was courting me, he told me:

"Chloe, I will never let you carry anything alone."

Now, that promise was rotting in the trash can downstairs right alongside those two bouquets of lilies.

On the day of the wedding, the Cloudview Grand Ballroom was packed with guests.

Dressed in a bespoke tuxedo, Brandon arrived at the hall with Vanessa.

Vanessa wore a soft pink gown, clinging to Brandon’s arm as if she were the hostess.

Brandon scanned the grand hall, but there was no sign of me.

He pushed open the bridal suite door. The room was pitch black and completely empty. Not even the vanity lights were on.

Frowning, he pulled out his phone and dialed my number, only to hear the automated message that the call could not be completed.

Assuming I was just being childish, he told Jason to call me. Jason got an out-of-service tone.

Embarrassment crept up his neck. He turned to find the master of ceremonies, ordering him to stall for time.

Just then, the venue director hurried over clutching a file.

"Mr. Miller, there's something we need to confirm with you."

Brandon glanced at him impatiently.

"What is it? The ceremony is about to start."

The manager held out the paperwork—a cancellation receipt, clearly stating the cancellation date and the refund processing records.

"Mr. Miller, this wedding was already canceled a week ago by Ms. Bennett. The deposit was also forfeited."