Chapter 2

2

The moment I got into my car, my phone rang. It was our wedding planner.

Her voice was laced with hesitation. "Mrs. Holloway, designer Bianca sent over a new proposal for your wedding invitations… She suggested replacing the current ones entirely."

I opened the mockup she sent.

Our original design had featured elegant, custom-embossed monograms of our initials.

Now, it had been replaced by a distressed, intentionally aged card with frayed edges and simulated coffee stains.

At the bottom was a crooked line of text:

"Make the most of everything. Grateful for the recycle."

"Ms. Croft said she felt this had a more… rustic charm, and Mr. Holloway approved it…" the planner's voice trailed off.

"Cancel it," I said, my voice eerily calm. "Cancel the entire wedding. Settle all cancellation fees according to the contract."

After hanging up, my phone lit up with a social media notification.

Instinctively, I opened my chat with Garrett first.

My last message to him from that morning sat unread: "Did you make it to the boutique? What do you want for dinner tonight?"

No reply.

I clicked on Instagram, where a red dot showed a new story update.

I rarely checked social media, but something compelled me to look.

The top post was from Bianca.

No caption, just a single photograph.

In the photo, Garrett leaned against a drafting desk, studying a blueprint with a level of intense focus I hadn't seen in years.

Bianca stood close beside him, her hand casually resting on the back of his chair.

On her left middle finger was a delicate rose gold band.

Garrett's ring finger was bare―the wedding ring he had worn for six years was gone.

Instead, a matching plain rose gold band sat on his middle finger.

My stomach dropped.

I knew that pair of rings all too well.

Years ago, tucked deep inside Garrett's desk drawer, there had been a small velvet box.

Inside were two cheap, tarnished plain silver bands.

Once, while tidying up, I had stumbled upon them. He snatched them back instantly, his face darkening with terrifying fury.

"Don't touch them!"

I never understood the fierce protectiveness in his voice until today.

In the corner of the photo, half of a handwritten note was visible, bearing Garrett's distinctive script:

"To my Bianca. My muse."

Bianca Croft.

That name had once been an open wound on Garrett's soul.

Seven years ago, when we were dead broke, sharing a bowl of cheap instant noodles in a cramped basement, he received an international call from her.

He locked himself in the bathroom and wept all night.

At dawn, his eyes bloodshot, he clung to me and sobbed brokenly.

"She told me someone like me is destined to crawl in the dirt forever."

"I hate her. I will never forgive her."

From that day on, he fought relentlessly to climb the ladder of success. On the night of his first big breakthrough, he got drunk, hugging me while laughing and crying.

"Rowan, the whole world knows Garrett Holloway now… but where is she?"

Back then, I truly believed I had melted the ice around his heart.

I never realized that beneath the melted ice lay the very same thorn.

The moment she returned, he eagerly picked up that thorn, treasuring it like gold.

Those cheap rings she had once discarded in disgust had been polished bright and placed back on their fingers.

I closed my eyes. I didn't cry, nor did I scream.

An empty ache hollowed out my chest, as if a vital piece of me had been violently ripped away.

I wasn't about to let my life become a punchline in someone else's drama.

Pulling up my contacts, I hovered my finger over a number I hadn't dialed in years, and finally pressed call.

The line connected.

A steady, quiet breath sounded through the speaker.

I took a deep breath and whispered, "Dad…"