Chapter 4

I lasted less than an hour at Anastacia’s birthday dinner.

The room was too bright. The music too soft. The people too skilled at pretending they had not seen Marco abandon me, slap me, and then sit beside Camille as if she were the one who had been wronged.

I went to the bar because standing alone felt worse.

One drink warmed my throat.

The second dulled the ache in my ribs.

By the third, the room blurred enough that I could almost breathe.

Then a hand touched my waist.

At first, I thought someone had bumped into me by accident. I shifted away.

The hand followed.

A man I barely recognized leaned close, his breath thick with liquor. “Why sit alone when you look like that?”

I pushed him. “Don’t touch me.”

He smiled, not embarrassed at all. “You came over here looking lonely.”

“I said stop.”

His fingers tightened.

Panic rose so fast I nearly choked on it. “Help!”

Heads turned.

The man immediately lifted both hands and laughed. “Relax. She’s drunk. She was flirting with me a minute ago.”

Whispers moved through the guests.

My face burned.

I looked for Marco.

He was already watching.

For one desperate second, I thought this time he would know. He had known me since childhood. He had seen me terrified, angry, proud, ashamed. Surely he would know I was telling the truth.

He walked toward us slowly.

“What happened?” he asked.

I pointed at the man. “He touched me.”

The man scoffed. “She’s drunk and embarrassed.”

Marco looked at my glass.

That small glance destroyed what the truck had left.

“You believe him?” I asked.

“I’m trying to understand.”

“No,” I said, stepping back. “You’re deciding whether I’m worth defending.”

His face changed.

But too late.

I ran from the ballroom before anyone could see me cry.

Anastacia found me in the corridor, one hand braced against the wall because my injured ribs made breathing difficult.

“Shania.” She reached for me. “Come with me. I’ll make Marco apologize.”

I shook my head.

“I don’t want his apology.”

“Then stay for me.”

That almost broke me.

I looked at the woman who had once felt like family and realized I could love her and still leave her son.

“I’m leaving, Anastacia.”

Her eyes filled.

“I’m ending the engagement,” I continued. “I’m leaving the city. Maybe the country. Please don’t tell Marco where I go.”

She covered her mouth.

“Please,” I whispered. “If you truly care about me, let me disappear.”

For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then she nodded.

I went home before midnight and began dismantling my life.

I returned the cars. Sent back the jewelry. Asked my uncle’s people to prepare the sale of the wedding house. Packed the documents that still had legal value and threw out everything that only hurt.

Camille’s belongings were everywhere.

A hair clip in the guest bathroom. A silk scarf on the sofa. Her skincare bottles lined beside mine like she had always belonged there. I boxed the expensive things and threw the rest away.

The next afternoon, Marco found me dragging one of her suitcases toward the door.

“What are you doing?” His voice was cold.

“Cleaning.”

Camille appeared behind him. Her face crumpled the moment she saw the boxes. “My things…”

“This is my house,” I said. “Your things don’t stay here.”

Marco’s expression darkened. “I gave you this house.”

“And signed the deed in my name.”

He stared at me, then laughed. “So now you’re using paperwork?”

“I’m using the only thing you respect.”

Camille began to cry. “I can leave. I don’t want to make trouble.”

Marco turned toward her instantly. “You’re not going anywhere unprepared. I bought you another place. Bigger, quieter. You’ll be comfortable there.”

Her tears vanished too quickly.

She came forward and hugged me before I could avoid her. Against my ear, she whispered, “See? Even when you throw me out, he gives me more.”

I pulled away. “Then keep him.”

Marco’s eyes narrowed.

“I mean it,” I said. “I’m marrying someone else.”

He laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because he believed it was impossible.

“You?” he said. “Who would marry you after you spent twenty years waiting for me?”

The words should have wounded me.

Instead, they helped.

Because once he said them, I finally understood: Marco did not think I stayed because he was worth loving. He thought I stayed because I was worthless without him.

My phone buzzed that night after he left with Camille.

Marco: I’ll come home later. Tell me what you want. I’ll make it up to you before the registry.

I stared at the message for a long time.

Then I typed the final test.

Bring me a blueberry cheesecake.