Theater: NovelMaster | Language: English | NEW
Synopsis
Prologue
I loved Julian Sterling for eight long years. For eight years, I genuinely believed I would one day become his bride.
Until I ran straight into his wife, Vivian.
Not only had they been married for three years, but they also had a three-year-old son together.
Even more sickening, Julian—desperate to keep both sides happy—actually had his identical twin brother, Christian, impersonate him just to spend time with me.
At that moment, I finally realized that my eight years of devoted love had been nothing more than a private, humiliating joke.
Yet fate wasn’t done breaking me.
Soon after, I found out I was pregnant, only to be diagnosed with an ectopic pregnancy. The baby I had secretly dreamed of holding was ripped away from me forever on an operating table.
Three days later, Julian fell to his knees in tears, swearing he would marry me and give our child a real home.
He had no idea that our baby was already gone.
And I no longer wanted any part of his future.
This time, I was going to tear down this eight-year lie with my own two hands.
Serena’s POV
I was with Julian Sterling for eight years.
During those eight years, I helped him build his business empire and planned dozens of fairy-tale weddings for other couples.
Everyone in our circle assumed we would eventually tie the knot. I was foolish enough to believe it, too.
Until I ran into Vivian Montgomery backstage at a luxury wedding I had planned.
The corridor was narrow. I took three quick strides and blocked her path.
"Are you Vivian?"
Vivian didn't flinch. She reached calmly into her designer bag, pulled out her phone, unlocked the screen, and held it up to my face.
It was a wedding portrait.
Julian and Vivian sat side by side, beaming with picture-perfect, flawless smiles.
"We've been married for three years," she said smoothly. "Didn't he mention that to you?"
My fingernails dug painfully into my palms.
Vivian swiped to the next photo, then the next. They were all Sterling family portraits at private galas.
Vivian was sitting right next to Julian, an antique heirloom bracelet gleaming on her wrist.
"This bracelet is passed down only to the legitimate wife of the Sterling family heir," she murmured. "Miss Vance, you're looking for answers from the wrong person."
A few stagehands carrying lighting rigs stopped in their tracks, throwing curious glances in our direction.
My face burned as if I’d been slapped in public.
I had come here to demand the truth, only to have reality brutally shatter my dignity.
I turned around, ducked into the deepest storage room backstage, slammed the door shut, and slid down against the cold concrete floor.
The temporary partition walls were practically paper-thin.
Vivian’s voice drifted in from the hallway as she made a call: "She won't cause a scene. She has no legal standing whatsoever. She's always come second."
Right after, Julian’s muffled voice came through the speaker: "Her status is meaningless. She was always second."
I leaned against the wall, my whole body trembling with cold.
Out in the grand ballroom, the bride and groom were reading their vows. The officiant's voice echoed faintly through the wood panels.
Curled up on the floor, it suddenly hit me: I had organized hundreds of weddings, yet I hadn't even figured out where I stood in my own life.
I sat in that dark room until the reception ended, then drove back to my design studio alone.
I flipped on the lights. The place felt dead and hollow.
Sitting at my drafting table, I began peeling back every detail of the last eight years.
Julian never stayed the night until morning; he always claimed he had an early board meeting.
He never introduced me to his parents, always making the excuse that the timing wasn't right.
His phone had double biometric locks.
Every single time he claimed to be away on a business trip, Vivian's Instagram posted location tags in the exact same city.
I scrolled down to an Instagram post Vivian had made three years ago. My thumb froze.
It was a close-up of a newborn’s tiny hand.
Further down were candid snapshots of Julian cradling the infant in his arms, documenting the little boy's milestones day by day.
He had a three-year-old son.
Yet Julian had looked into my eyes countless times and swore he had never been a father.
My hand instinctively drifted to my lower stomach.
My period was ten days late. The pregnancy test I had bought was still sitting in my drawer, unopened.
My thoughts went to my late mother.
When she was young, she gave her heart to a man who kept her hidden, waiting over a decade until she died in bitter regret.
On her deathbed, she gripped my hand and pleaded with me never to walk down her path.
And here I was, stepping right into the exact same quicksand.
I shook with agony. Every shred of logic told me to walk away immediately, but eight years of sunk cost felt like thick ropes strangling my throat.
Three days later, Vivian invited me for coffee at a private restaurant.
She poured me a cup of tea and mentioned that the Sterling family was hosting an important banquet this Saturday. Julian was expected to attend with his wife and son.
"I’ll give you one fair chance," Vivian said. "Call him on Saturday and demand that he spend the day with you."
"If he actually shows up at your door, I will walk away without a fight. But if he doesn't, pack your things and disappear from his life."
My hands shook as I held the teacup.
I remembered Julian's favorite promise: he always said I was his one true love, that once the timing was right, he would make everything right with me.
What if, just this once, he actually chose me over his family duty?
Staring at the tea leaves settled at the bottom of the cup, I nodded.
Stepping out into the blinding sunlight, I realized with bitter irony that I was still clinging to a pathetic shred of hope.Serena’s POV
Early Saturday morning, Julian called.
"I'm skipping the family dinner," he said over the line. "I'm coming over to spend the day with you."
Holding my phone, I couldn't speak for several seconds.
I truly thought Julian had finally made his choice.
At noon, he pushed open the studio door, carrying a box of pastries from the boutique bakery I loved.
He sat on the rug, unpacked the containers, poured me a warm drink, and asked gently if I had been overworking myself lately.
He added that as soon as this busy quarter wrapped up, he would take me on a trip abroad to unwind.
Leaning against his shoulder, I chewed on a bite of food that I could barely swallow, feeling as though eight years of silent heartbreak had finally paid off.
After lunch, the man leaned over to inspect my wedding floor plans. Pointing at the reception arch, he suggested the floral arrangements could be denser and that the lighting angles needed recalibration.
I smiled and nodded. But as I kept watching him, the smile froze on my face.
I asked casually, "Do you remember what I wore the first time we met?"
The man hesitated for a second, then offered an easy smile. "A white dress, right? You looked gorgeous."
The day we met, I had just walked off a dusty construction site covered in grime, wearing black cargo pants.
Then I said I was craving mango crepes.
The man stood up immediately, offering to run downstairs to buy some.
I have a life-threatening mango allergy. I had warned him at least a dozen times, and every single time, Julian confidently claimed he had it memorized.
That wasn't all. The way he held his paper cup was completely different. The curve of his lips when he smiled was off by an inch.
Most damning of all: last year, Julian had shielded me from a falling steel truss at a venue, leaving a two-inch jagged scar on his left elbow.
The left arm of the man standing in front of me was completely smooth. Not a single blemish.
I stood up and took a step back.
"You're not Julian. You're his brother."
Silence fell over the room.
The man slowly lowered his head and let out a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry. I'm Christian. Julian begged me to come in his place."
Julian had attended his high-society family banquet right on time with his wife and child, while sending his identical twin brother to keep me entertained. Playing both sides without sacrificing an inch.
Looking at that identical face, a wave of pure nausea hit my stomach.
This was a thousand times more disgusting than being stood up.
"Get out," I said.
Christian opened his mouth as if to explain, but found no words. He grabbed his coat and quietly left the studio.
The lock clicked shut.
I walked straight into the bathroom, retrieved the pregnancy test from the bottom cabinet, tore open the foil packet, and locked myself in a stall.
Five minutes later, two distinct pink lines stared back at me.
Sitting on the toilet lid, my fingers gripped the plastic stick until my knuckles turned stark white.
I splashed cold water on my face, threw on my coat, grabbed my ID and insurance card, and hailed a cab straight to the women's clinic.
Registration, blood draws, ultrasounds, checkups.
Even without him, I swore I would raise this baby on my own.
But the doctor's diagnosis delivered a crushing blow.
It was an ectopic pregnancy. I could not keep this child; carrying it any longer would kill me.
"Thank God you caught it early," the doctor sighed with pity.
I don't even remember how I managed to sign the emergency surgery consent forms.
I didn't utter a single useless word through the entire process, but my hand shook violently as the pen touched the paper.
I couldn't even protect my own child.
When I was discharged from the surgical recovery ward, it was already late afternoon. The sunlight outside was blinding.
Standing on the clinic steps, I cast one last look at the glass doors, then hailed a cab and drove away without looking back.
Julian didn't realize anything was wrong until three days later.
He called me repeatedly. I answered, but my voice was as flat and detached as a stranger's.
He canceled his evening meetings, sped across town, and pounded frantically on my studio door in the middle of the night.
I unlocked it.
Julian barged in, grabbed my hand, and began rambling at breakneck speed.
He claimed the family dinner had been unavoidable, that asking his brother to step in was a moment of sheer stupidity, and that he swore he was ending things with Vivian for good.
He pulled a commercial lease agreement from his briefcase, offering to upgrade me to a 2,000-square-foot luxury studio, promising to hand over all the wedding venue contracts under the Sterling Group exclusively to me.
He even claimed we could fly abroad and register our marriage in secret where no one could interfere.
Julian talked until his voice went hoarse.
Then he slammed a set of keys onto the desk, telling me he had purchased a riverfront penthouse in my name, insisting that I move in the moment our baby was born.
He shoved a black card into my hand, telling me to quit working and just focus on resting through the pregnancy.
Mid-sentence, Julian suddenly dropped to his knees.
His kneecap slammed hard against the sharp corner of the solid wood desk. He let out a muffled groan, but didn't bother checking the bruise. Instead, he shuffled forward on his knees until he reached my chair.
He pressed his entire face against my lower stomach.
His palms shook uncontrollably as he rested them over my belly, hesitating for two seconds before pressing firmly against me. His voice cracked with tears.
"I know you're pregnant."
"I want this baby. I swear I'll protect both of you."
"Once the baby is born, I'll take us overseas. We'll start fresh somewhere nobody knows our names."
Resting against my flat stomach, he babbled endlessly about our future—names for a boy, names for a girl, teaching our kid how to swim, planting an oak tree in the front yard.
Kneeling against my belly, he made countless promises about a future together.
He had no idea that my womb was already completely empty.
I let him hold my hands, listening to him with an expressionless face.
He had recycled these same promises for eight years. Always "later," never "now."
I raised a hand and gently patted Julian’s head, as if comforting a pitiful stranger.
"Go home," I said quietly. "I'm exhausted."
Julian looked up, his eyes bloodshot. He probably assumed I was finally softening. After repeating several more desperate promises, he reluctantly let himself out.
The second the front door clicked shut, my back slid down against the panel onto the floor.
I reached out and touched my flat stomach.
Clean, quiet, and completely empty.Serena’s POV
Two days later, Mia came to the studio to see me.
She sat on the sofa nervously picking at her cuticles for ten minutes before finally pulling out her phone.
"Serena... brace yourself before you look at this. Don't let it destroy you."
On the very afternoon Julian had rushed over to weep and drop to his knees promising me a future, Vivian had taken their son to an amusement park on the outskirts of the city.
Julian had been with them the entire time.
At the main entrance, Julian had his son perched on his shoulders, laughing. In front of a crowd of passersby, he had even knelt down to tie Vivian's loose shoelace.
Someone in their high-society circle had snapped photos and shared them across several SnapChat groups.
I unlocked my phone and tapped through the high-resolution images one by one.
In the pictures, the little boy was giggling while tugging Julian’s hair, and Vivian stood beside them, radiant and elegant.
As Julian knelt on the pavement tying her lace, he was looking up at his wife with genuine, tender devotion in his eyes.
I flipped my phone face down onto the glass table.
Everything clicked into place.
All that late-night talk about an overseas wedding, a bigger studio, and giving our baby a home—it was all worthless compensation money.
The honorable companionship, the public devotion, the real family—he gave all of that freely to Vivian.
All he left for me were empty midnight apologies and a commercial lease contract.
I sat motionless on the couch for two full hours.
Starting that day, I began erasing every trace of our eight years together.
I opened my phone's photo library, wiping out every shared picture and backup without hesitation.
I deleted every chat thread and call log.
There was a framed photo hanging on the studio wall from our early days at an event site. I took it down, removed the picture from the backing, tore it to shreds, and stuffed the empty frame into the bottom of a storage closet.
I deleted my active social media accounts, replacing my profile picture on Instagram with an empty, deserted banquet hall.
Next, I went through the studio and packed every suit, razor, personalized mug, and change of clothes Julian had ever left behind.
I sealed them into cardboard boxes, booked a local same-day courier, and addressed the shipment straight to the Sterling family estate. Under the sender field, I wrote simply: "Bridal Studio."
Once the boxes were picked up, I called a locksmith and replaced the fingerprint digital lock on my door.
A few days later, Julian rang the bell.
He walked into the room, and his brow instantly furrowed.
The framed photos were gone. His house slippers were gone from the entryway. Even his toothbrush was missing from the vanity shelf.
I sat at my laptop editing design blueprints, not even bothering to glance up.
Julian parted his lips to speak, but choked the words back.
He reached into his designer overcoat, placed a luxury jewelry box on the corner of my desk, and slid a high-limit black card toward me.
"A major corporate client just wired an advance deposit. Take this and spend whatever you want."
"I stopped by Cartier earlier and picked up a necklace. It'll look stunning on you."
As always, he tried to patch things up with money, deliberately ignoring the fact that his presence had been wiped from the room.
I glanced at the card and let out a faint, mocking breath.
"The studio is getting remodeled soon. I boxed up the clutter in advance."
I offered a careless lie, sparing him the humiliation of being called out.
The black card sat under the velvet box in the corner of the desk, cold and untouched. Neither of us reached for it again.Serena’s POV
I landed a massive project: coordinating the high-profile wedding of an industrial tycoon’s only daughter.
It was the largest budget I had ever handled in my career, and I was directing the entire production solo.
A week before the wedding, I sent Julian a message: "Saturday is the biggest event of my career. I'm running the entire floor. I want you there."
Julian replied instantly, swearing he would be there on time.
The afternoon before the wedding, Vivian invited me for coffee again.
She boldly announced that she would also be attending the reception as a guest, and she wanted to see whose side Julian would choose when the curtain went up.
Before she could finish her sentence, the private room door swung open.
Julian stood in the doorway, his expression darkening.
He marched inside, glaring at Vivian before turning his eyes on me. "What are you two doing here?"
I took a slow sip of warm water, completely composed. "I was just running through tomorrow's floral arrangements with Mrs. Sterling, asking for her input."
Vivian gave me a sharp look, chose not to expose my bluff on the spot, picked up her leather bag, and walked out.
Julian looked suspicious, but let the matter drop.
On the day of the wedding, Julian showed up on time. Dressed in a sharp suit, he stood by a marble pillar in the grand ballroom with a flute of champagne, watching me direct the crew.
I was in an all-black suit, headset on, checking off every item personally—from the imported floral blooms at the entrance to the exact cues for the bride's walk.
Whenever I glanced toward the corner, Julian would raise his glass toward me with a quiet smile.
Halfway through the ceremony, right as the newlyweds raised their glasses for the toast, Julian’s phone buzzed violently in his pocket.
He answered, murmured a few words, and his face instantly turned pale.
He strode over to my side in a rush. "Vivian had an emergency. I have to go deal with it. I’ll be right back."
Before I could say a word, he turned on his heel and left.
I was left standing in the center of the ballroom, walkie-talkie clutched in my hand, carrying the entire high-stakes event on my own shoulders.
When a glass shattered at the head table, I signaled the staff to clear it and replace it within seconds.
When the chandelier lights flickered during the bouquet toss, I quietly dispatched the backup electrician to inspect the circuits.
When the audio desk queued the wrong background track during the cake-cutting, I flashed a hand signal, and the engineer corrected the melody seamlessly.
A professional, radiant smile remained fixed on my lips. Nobody in that room could tell that my palms were soaked in cold sweat.
It wasn't until the guests had cleared out and the crew began dismantling the iron trusses that a courier handed me a package.
Inside was a diamond necklace, accompanied by a handwritten note from Julian: I'm so sorry about today. Bought you a little something to make it up to you.
Holding that note in the cavernous, empty ballroom, I thought of my late mother again.
Years ago, that married man used to do the exact same thing to her. Every time he broke a promise, he sent cash or an expensive silk scarf.
And my mother would clutch those worthless gifts, comforting herself into believing he truly loved her.
She waited until her dying breath, only to receive a family portrait of that man surrounded by his real wife and legitimate children.
I shoved the necklace back into its velvet box and tossed it into the very bottom of my tool chest.
I saw the truth with crystal clarity: in Julian’s eyes, I was just someone who could be bought off and pacified with jewelry and wire transfers.
After the wedding, Julian must have realized he crossed a line. Deliveries of flowers and gourmet meals flooded my studio.
Two days later, he texted saying he would drive me to inspect a potential new venue.
When the car pulled up downstairs, I opened the passenger door and slid in. One glance was all it took.
It was Christian behind the wheel again.
The way Christian held the steering wheel and his habit of checking the rearview mirror were subtly different from Julian’s.
I didn't call him out. I simply kept my tone strictly professional. "Let's go."
Christian blinked, startled, then quietly shifted the car into drive.
Throughout the entire site visit, I didn't look at Christian once. Armed with a laser distance meter, I spent the afternoon discussing ceiling heights and load-bearing specs with the venue manager.
Christian stood awkwardly to the side, looking like a hired mannequin.
Once I finished logging the data, I turned to him with a polite nod. "Thanks for the ride. You can head back now."
Christian seemed to want to say something, but swallowed his words. He got into the car and drove away.
Watching the taillights vanish around the corner, my heart felt completely, blissfully dead.Serena’s POV
A few days later, the city hosted a massive industry expo at the convention center.
My studio had an independent booth. Julian attended as a venue partner, and Vivian showed up in designer heels to tour the exhibits.
Midway through the expo, thick black smoke suddenly poured out of the central ventilation ducts, and a piercing fire alarm shrieked across the hall.
The crowd panicked, surging toward the emergency exits. Someone knocked over a display stand, sending metal frames and floral arrangements crashing to the floor.
Caught in the stampede, my heel snapped in a carpet seam. My ankle twisted violently with a sickening pop, pinning me to the spot in agony.
Vivian was only a few yards away in the crowd, losing her footing and dropping her designer purse.
Julian happened to be standing in the aisle right between us.
Without a single second of hesitation, he lunged toward Vivian, swept her up into his arms, and sprinted toward the nearest fire exit.
His movements were practiced and protective—one arm cradling her back, the other supporting her legs.
From start to finish, his eyes never drifted toward me for even a fraction of an inch.
Black smoke billowed down from the ceiling. I covered my mouth and coughed violently, watching him carry his wife out the door.
Several agonizing minutes later, Julian’s assistant fought his way through the retreating crowd, panting as he helped me up.
"Miss Vance, Mr. Sterling is tied up at the moment. He specifically ordered me to come over and take care of you."
Limping heavily, I let the assistant support me out of the convention center to a stone planter outside.
Under the harsh daylight, Julian was kneeling halfway in front of Vivian, draping his own tailored suit jacket over her shoulders and gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Vivian leaned into his chest while Julian whispered soothing words, his hand softly rubbing his wife’s trembling back.
I slipped off my broken shoe. My ankle had already swollen to the size of a grapefruit. Through it all, not once did Julian come over to ask if I was hurt.
I pushed away the water bottle the assistant offered me. "I don't need your help. I can walk on my own."
It wasn't until late that night that Julian finally called to check on me.
His tone was sickeningly gentle. He asked if I had any bruises, then rushed to explain that Vivian was traumatized and their son was crying at home, claiming he simply couldn't get away.
Sitting beside his legal wife, he recited his well-rehearsed lies over the receiver.
I leaned back on the couch, the ice pack on my ankle melting into lukewarm water that soaked through the cloth wrap.
Listening to that tender voice, I could vividly picture Julian leaning against the hospital wall, convinced he was a master puppeteer pulling all the strings.
I didn't expose him. Instead, I gave him a lie of my own.
"I'm fine. The baby is doing great, too. I went in for an ultrasound this afternoon, and my hormone levels were completely normal."
The child that had been ripped away from me days ago became my weapon to mock his web of deceit.
Julian let out an audible sigh of relief over the phone.
He urged me to get some rest and promised he would visit in a couple of days.
The moment the call ended, I tossed the phone aside.
I decided it was time to force Julian into a corner and make him choose in broad daylight.
I took on the wedding planning for Julian's closest childhood friend.
I specifically requested that Julian serve as the master of ceremonies.
At the same time, I had Mia send Vivian an invitation to the Montgomery family anniversary gala under the guise of a florist sponsor—scheduled for the exact same hour.
On Friday afternoon, I slapped both invitations down in front of Julian.
"Your best friend's wedding and the Montgomery family banquet are at the exact same time tomorrow. You can only attend one. Choose."
Julian stared at the cards, his face shifting through multiple shades of pale.
He knew I was forcing his hand. After a suffocating silence, he gritted his teeth. "I'll go to my friend's wedding."
On Saturday, Julian sped down the highway to make it on time.
He burst through the ballroom doors covered in blood, his white dress shirt soaked in crimson.
I only learned later that he had been in a high-speed car crash on the freeway.
Seeing his battered, bloody state, my heart gave an involuntary, painful twitch.
Julian ignored the gasps of the guests and marched straight toward me.
He grabbed my wrist with a hand slick with fresh blood.
"Serena, I made it. I chose you."
"I don't even care about my life anymore. All I want is you."Serena’s POV
Right as the bride and groom stepped onto the stage, a loud snap echoed through the ceiling.
A mounting bolt on the massive crystal chandelier sheared off.
With a shrieking tear of twisted metal, the multi-ton chandelier plummeted straight toward the aisle where I was standing.
Julian reacted with lightning speed. He shoved me hard out of the way.
The falling crystal shards sliced a deep gash down his right forearm.
Chaos erupted instantly. Guests knocked over chairs as they scrambled for the exits, and shattered wine glasses pooled red across the floor.
I hit the floor hard, the back of my head striking the sharp edge of a table. Darkness swam across my vision as I collapsed in the aisle.
I wasn't fully unconscious. I could clearly hear the thunderous footsteps around me, and the smell of burnt electrical wiring filled my nostrils.
I heard Julian frantically pulling out his phone and shouting into the line, his voice ragged: "The chandelier collapsed in the ballroom! Send the medical transport right now!"
"My wife is in the VIP lounge next door, terrified out of her mind, and my son is running a high fever from the shock! Get them to the hospital first!"
"Serena just got a few scratches out here. She's fine. Send a second car for her later!"
Lying on the freezing carpet, a single tear tracked down the corner of my eye and soaked into my hair.
One second ago, Julian was screaming that he would give his life for me.
The next second, when real life and death were on the line, his number one priority would always, unquestionably, be Vivian.
It was two hours before the backup car finally arrived to take me to the emergency room.
Three stitches across my forehead, along with severe scrapes down my arms.
After having his own arm bandaged, Julian stayed by my hospital bed for three days, playing the doting caretaker, bringing me water and medication.
On the morning of the fourth day, a phone call from Julian's mother came straight to my room.
Her hysterical sobs poured through the receiver, shouting that Vivian was having a complete mental breakdown in the adjacent wing, smashing furniture, while their three-year-old grandson was burning with a relentless fever. She demanded that Julian come fix it immediately.
Julian hung up, sat on the edge of the mattress in silence for a long time, and then stood up to pull on his overcoat.
I leaned against the pillows, watching him without asking a single question.
Julian walked to the door, his hand resting on the handle, before looking back over his shoulder. "Serena... let's just end this."
"I can never give you the title of my wife. Dragging this out will only destroy both of us. Stop waiting for me."
With that, he pushed the door open and walked away without looking back.
He chose his family, yet turned around and lectured me to let go, reducing our eight years of history to nothing more than a "mistake."
Expressionless, I reached down, pulled the IV needle from the back of my hand, and blocked Julian’s number on my phone.
After he left, I lay in that hospital bed until dusk, mentally auditing every milestone of the past eight years.
The day my studio opened, Julian skipped it, claiming an urgent meeting; that day was his son's first birthday party.
On the third anniversary of my mother's passing, I traveled alone to visit her grave; Julian said he was closing an out-of-town deal, but it was Vivian's father's birthday.
At the celebration dinner for my first seven-figure contract, Julian claimed he was entertaining clients; in reality, he spent the entire night at a private hospital tending to Vivian.
When I was bedridden with a 103-degree fever, Julian claimed he was swamped; that was the day he personally escorted his son to his first day of preschool.
On my twenty-sixth birthday, I reserved a table for two and waited for three hours; Julian posted a picture of his son’s tiny hand on an IV drip with the caption: Daddy is always here.
In eight years, at every single critical juncture, Julian was never with me. He was always with his wife.
The day I was discharged, I unblocked Julian’s number and sent him one final text: "Saturday is our eighth anniversary. I'll wait for you at the studio at 8:00 PM. If you show up, I'll give you one last chance. If you don't, I will vanish forever."
Julian replied within thirty seconds: I'll be there on time. I swear.
Saturday morning, I mopped the studio floor until it shone, opening the windows to let the breeze in.
I went downstairs, bought the craft stout he loved, and put it in the fridge. I cooked two of his favorite dishes and set them neatly on the dining table.
At 3:00 PM, Julian texted saying Vivian had an issue pop up, but he would be over the second it was handled.
At 6:00 PM, there was absolute silence from my phone. I dumped the cold dishes back into the skillet to reheat them.
At 8:00 PM, I sat alone at the table. The food went completely cold, and the foam on the poured beer faded to nothing.
At 10:00 PM, I dialed Julian’s number. An automated female voice informed me the caller was unavailable.
At 2:00 AM, Vivian used Julian’s phone to send me a photo. Attached was a text: The baby has a recurring fever. Julian is sleeping here tonight. He doesn't have time for you.
I read the text, placed the phone face down on the table, and didn't shed a single tear.
I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a manila envelope. Inside were the hospital records from my ectopic pregnancy surgery, along with a clean sheet of paper.
Written in black ink were two short sentences:
"Julian, the baby died a long time ago."
"Your claim that you were never a father was a lie. Your promise to make me your wife was a lie. Your claim that you chose me was a lie."
"Eight years. We're done."
I slid the envelope beneath the cold beer bottle.
Then, I scraped the two plates of food into the trash, grabbed my packed suitcase, turned off the lights, and locked the front door.
I slipped the key through the crack beneath the door.
Before the sun came up, I canceled the lease.
I took out my SIM card, snapped it, tossed it into a trash can, and left the city behind for good.
Chapters (6)
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
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