Drowning in His Heartbeat

On her sixty-sixth attempt to get a marriage license with Brandon—the Capital Circle’s so-called ‘Monk’—Jennifer finally landed herself on the Civil Registry’s blacklist. Even Oliver, the security guard at the door, knew she’d been stood up. Again. One marriage certificate. Six years. Still nothing. The first time, Brandon had left her waiting for Stephanie’s lost cat. The second, Stephanie’s parents were visiting the capital, and he’d insisted on playing host. … The sixty-sixth time, Stephanie won the Best Newcomer Award. A once-in-a-lifetime moment, he’d said. “Miss,” the clerk Jerry remarked, not unkindly, “you’re about to wear out the Registry’s welcome mat. You’ve drawn that same lot sixty-six times. A little advice? Try picking a different name.” She tore the lottery slip in her hand and gave him a bitter nod. Then her phone rang. “Ms. Jennifer,” a voice began, “Mr. Brandon isn’t the man you’re looking for.” Instantly, the tendons stood out on the back of her hand. The numb smile she’d worn moments before vanished without a trace. “We checked that batch of heart transplant recipients. There were two—both surnamed Gabriel. The registrar mixed them up…” A long silence passed before she heard herself reply, “Okay. I see.” “Would you… still like the other Mr. Gabriel’s contact information?” The man on the phone—Zachary—sounded apologetic, treading carefully. “Yes. Please send it to me. Thank you.” Only after hanging up did the emotion she’d been suppressing finally break through, coiling around her chest like strangling vines, stealing her breath. She looked down at the shredded lottery slip in her palm and let out a wry, painful laugh. One mistake. It had cost her six whole years. No wonder Brandon had been so indifferent. No wonder he’d hurt her so freely. He simply… wasn’t him. Jennifer stumbled home in a daze, her face pale. Brandon seemed to have just returned. The tuxedo he’d worn to the red carpet event hung quietly on the valet stand, the air around it still faintly scented with Stephanie’s signature perfume. How did she know? Because during one of their many failed attempts to get the license, Stephanie had called, sobbing over her shattered favorite perfume bottle… So Brandon had left her—again—and flown to London that same day to buy a limited edition bottle from the designer himself. A practiced, hollow smile touched her lips. She picked up his clothes and hung them in the walk-in closet. His voice, never particularly warm, came from behind her. “We’ll go get the license tomorrow. It’s just across the street. A short walk.” Jennifer froze. The carefully buried ache surged back at his words. It was close. Just across the street… But tomorrow had always turned into another tomorrow. Over two thousand days and nights, and she still hadn’t gotten that piece of paper. Fortunately, the target was wrong. She didn’t have to wait anymore. She sniffed, her reply dismissive. “Don’t bother. There’s no point now.” Backlit by the window, Brandon’s expression darkened. The usual calm in his eyes turned cold, sharp even in the dim light. His words came out frost-laced. “What’s that supposed to mean? I just attended Stephanie’s award ceremony, and now you’re throwing a tantrum? How many times do I have to tell you? She’s my late friend’s little sister. I’m just looking out for her.”