The driver stole a glance at me in the rearview mirror, his voice barely above a whisper, like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. “Madam said Miss Celeste was upset earlier… She told me to bring you home first.”
I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended. “Since when do you care about outsiders? Huh?”
Outsider. That word cut through me. My hands clenched the strap of my bag until my knuckles ached. That was who I had become—nothing more than an outsider.
I didn’t want to make things harder for him, so I told him to stop the car and let me out. He hesitated for only a heartbeat, then pulled over. The cold air hit me the second my feet touched the pavement, biting and harsh. Within moments, the taillights had vanished into the night.
I trudged along the empty street, scarf wound tightly around my face. The wine from the banquet still buzzed faintly in my system, and my thoughts wandered to memories I shouldn’t have revisited. Mrs. Thompson’s last birthday floated into my mind—everyone teasing us about wedding dresses and future children, all of it light, warm, and full of laughter. That day, I had been so happy that I drank too much and ended up doubled over with stomach pain.
It had been storming that night. No taxis. Damien couldn’t use the family car. But he didn’t care. He had carried me through icy streets all the way to the hospital, refusing to let me cry, refusing to let me suffer alone.
And now, a year later, that same Damien could leave me standing alone on the roadside for Ariana.
My nose stung. I tightened my scarf, keeping my steps slow and deliberate. By the time I reached my apartment, my muscles ached from the cold.
I was just about to unlock the door when a hand suddenly covered my eyes from behind. “Guess who?”
My heart jumped, but I forced myself to remain calm. Slowly, I pried his hand away, keeping my face unreadable.
It was Damien.
His frown deepened when he realized I wasn’t playing along. He lowered his hand awkwardly and pulled a small box from his pocket. “My mom said you left something behind,” he murmured, turning it over between his fingers. “I was told to bring it back. What is it?”
The box wobbled lightly in his grip, and my breath caught. That small container… it held the token of trust my mother had exchanged with the Thompsons before she died.
I lunged forward, snatching it from him before he could pry it open.
His eyes narrowed. “Celeste… are you hiding something from me?”
I could feel the sharp corners of the box digging into my palm. Once, Damien and I had promised never to keep secrets from each other. That was before Ariana. Before lies became effortless, before he learned how to bend the truth without a second thought.
I gripped the box tighter, the ache radiating into my chest. I looked up at him. “It’s not a secret. But there’s no reason I should tell you.”
We weren’t anything anymore.
I turned toward my door, wishing this night could end.
But he moved faster. Damien yanked my bag open and pulled the box back into his hands. “Really?” His voice dripped with mockery. “What is this? A gift from some outsider? Is that why you didn’t want me to see it?”
Something inside me shattered. I didn’t think. I reached for it, stretching onto my toes, desperate to reclaim it before he could open it.
He held my hand, steadying me. I knew he liked this, the way it reminded him of the past—when I had laughed, thrown myself into his arms, begged for what he had taken. He used to love that.
This time, I stared up at him, and he noticed. My eyes were red. His smile faltered.
“You cried… just because I wanted to see it?” he asked quietly.
I pressed my lips together. All I wanted was for him to hand it back. That was all. But before I could explain, his phone started ringing. Once. Twice. Over and over, relentless. I glanced down—the screen lit up with her name. Ariana.
Damien shifted, restless, visibly anxious. Finally, he muttered, “She keeps calling. I don’t know what’s wrong… maybe something happened. She’s alone. I should go—”
“Give me back my things, then leave,” I interrupted, voice steady.
His face darkened. I could see the words die in his throat. But the phone wouldn’t stop. Finally, he shoved the box into my hands, rough and careless. The lid popped open, and a yellowed piece of paper slid out, fluttering to the floor.
He glanced at it once, then turned and left without a word.
I bent down, picked it up, and saw what it was. Our marriage certificate, waiting for his signature. Without thinking, I tore it into pieces. The scraps fell into the trash along with whatever remained of us.
