I had always believed Damien and I were destined for forever. From the moment we were born, we were promised to each other, inseparable, our lives entwined like threads in the same tapestry.
Then the fire happened.
He had gone into the stables when the flames erupted, the smoke thick and choking. He would have died there, trapped in the blaze, if not for her—Ariana, a servant girl. She dragged him out, coughing and half-conscious, her arms blackened with soot. From that moment, nothing remained the same.
His father had said, “If you want to marry Celeste, you must keep Ariana close until the favor is repaid.”
And Damien had agreed. He said it was for me, for us, for the future we were meant to share.
But there was more. A promise he made to her, strange and ridiculous at the time: if she ever felt unhappy, he would drop everything and rush to her side. I had laughed it off. How often could she be unhappy? I couldn’t have been more wrong. With Ariana, misery seemed endless.
The first sign came on my birthday. She looked at me with soft, almost sorrowful eyes. “I’ve never had a party like this,” she whispered.
And Damien? He turned to me.
“Celeste… please. Let her have this one,” he begged.
I froze. It was my birthday. Mine. And yet, I gave it up. Because he asked. Because I feared disappointing him.
Later, I cried, telling him, “Maybe we shouldn’t get married at all.”
Panic lit up his face. That night, the city blazed with fireworks, tens of millions spent just to stop me from walking away. On his knees, he whispered, “Everything I do, Celeste, it’s for us. So we can be together sooner. Don’t doubt me.”
I believed him. Always.
The second test came when Ariana visited our wedding home. She ran her fingers along the walls, eyes wide. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”
And Damien gave it to her. Just like that. Later that night, he pulled me close. “I’ll find you another one, Celeste. Bigger, better. Just give me a little more time.”
So I waited. And waited. I watched as our home, our car, even the cats we had planned to raise together, were given away—piece by piece—to her. Every time, he promised something more, something better, would come to me.
By the ninety-ninth time, my heart had frayed. But I clung to hope. That day was meant to be the end. The favor was finally repaid. I sat outside the City Clerk’s Office, ready to finally marry him.
He didn’t show.
Instead, the news hit me: he had spent a fortune on a red diamond—a flawless gem meant to symbolize a once-in-a-lifetime gift. And he had given it to her. Ariana.
My chest went cold. My fingers trembled as I dialed his number.
“W-Damien… we’re not getting married,” I said.
He laughed. “Throwing a fit again, Celeste? Threatening me?” Then his voice dropped, low and teasing, the one he reserved for her. “Don’t worry, Celeste. I’ll come back to you once she’s repaid.”
Those words. Again. Always those same words. Five years of them, swallowed every single time.
This time, I didn’t cry. Didn’t plead. I simply hung up. Calmly.
He thought I was sulking. Sent someone with a bigger diamond, thinking it would fix everything. Thought I was jealous. Thought I would wait.
But he didn’t know. That was my final chance.
I called my aunt in France. “I’ve made my choice. I’ll accept the marriage we talked about last time.”
She cried on the other end, over and over thanking me. Relief and happiness in her voice.
I smiled faintly, phone pressed to my ear, though my heart felt like ashes.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t waiting.
Later, I sat on my bedroom floor, staring at everything Damien had ever given me. I reached for the music box he had ordered when we were children, the one I had once thought magical. Then the sweater he had clumsily knitted in middle school, his pride clear as he tugged it over my shoulders. The ring he had first proposed with, the symbol of our supposed future together.
Mixed among these were the things he had given me only because of Ariana—the diamonds, the shoes, the purses meant to soothe me after he had already given something precious of ours to her. I packed them all. Every single one.
By midnight, the boxes were ready. I told my assistant to deliver them straight to him. Then I grabbed the signet ring, the token of our two families’ bond, and drove to our wedding home.
The door code was the same: his birthday, then mine. My chest ached as I pressed the numbers, but I went inside.
The lock clicked, and he appeared, startled. “Celeste?” Relief and a small smile on his face. “You don’t like the diamond? I can get you another. And yesterday wasn’t the right date anyway—someone’s picking a new one for the certificate.”
I didn’t answer. I pointed at the boxes. “I came to return something.”
His smile faltered. His brows knitted in irritation.
Then I heard the light, careless footsteps. Ariana ran down from upstairs, barefoot, clinging to his waist as if she belonged there.
And my entire body froze.
