The watch even had both our names engraved on it.
Scrolling further, I found another post that said, [Rehabilitation was painful, but remembering him saying, "Imperfection is also beauty," gave me strength again.]
The attached photo showed a man carefully applying oil to her prosthetic limb—a gesture so intimate.
Beside him sat a familiar bottle of hand cream, the woody-scented one I had bought for Louis.
My chest tightened as though gripped by an icy hand, the suffocating pressure only growing stronger.
So all that tenderness and care I thought belonged only to me… had already been poured into someone else.
Late that night, a sound came from the front door.
Louis froze when he saw me sitting there in the dark. "Claire? Why are you sitting in the dark?"
The glow from my phone lit my pale face. "Louis, explain this. Whose story is posted in @lulusecretcorner?"
His expression stiffened and he stepped toward me, voice strained. "Claire, it’s not what you think."
I pulled my hand back, forcing a bitter smile. "Not what I think?"
I thrust the screen toward him. "Look at this—watch, these cufflinks, the hand cream. I gave all of these to you. You used my gifts to comfort another woman and told her 'imperfection is beauty'?"
My eyes burned, but I refused to let the tears fall.
He knelt down, trying to meet my gaze, his eyes soft and pleading. "Laura is fragile. She’s disabled and she’s been through so much. As her boss, I just wanted to be kind, to encourage her. Those words were only meant to comfort her, to keep her from feeling ashamed."
He reached for me, but I pulled away. "To be kind? You call it kindness when you bring her hot drinks yourself, when you rub lotion on her and praise her for her courage?"
My voice shook. "And when you told me I was 'so small,' weren’t you comparing me to her? You're disgusting."
"Claire!" Louis’s voice cracked, raw and desperate.
"I never meant it that way. You’re the only one."
He drew in a deep breath, his tone dropping to a plea. "Yes, I admit—I pitied her a little. She reminded me of my mother. But I swear, I never crossed the line. Don’t you know where my heart truly belongs?"
I bit my lip, saying nothing as tears slid down my face.
He hated seeing me cry and the look on his face said more than words. Finally, he stood up and returned with a heavy wooden box.
"I wanted to give this to you on our wedding day."
Kneeling on one knee, he opened it—not to reveal jewels, but dozens of smooth little wooden carvings in various shapes. Rabbits, deer, pavilions, spires…
"I remember how your grandfather used to cheer you up with these," he said softly, lifting them out one by one like treasures. "This panda is from Greenwick—you told me you wanted one. This conch is from Solmere…"
There were fifty-two in total, each tied to the places he had traveled for work or the places we had gone together, each reflecting some offhand preference I had once mentioned.
"You once said that with your grandfather passed, no one would make these for you anymore."
When he looked up, his eyes mirrored my tears. He said solemnly, "Claire, your grandfather may be gone, but I'm here. I’ll love you in the same way he once made you feel cared for."
His words pierced through the walls I had built around myself.
He had remembered everything.
I wavered, shaken. Was Laura really nothing more to him than the shadow of his mother?
At last, I nodded. "Okay, Louis, I’ll believe you, but you have to promise me one thing. No more contact with Laura outside of work."
He pulled me into his arms. "Okay, I promise, baby. I promise."
He kissed my tears away, again and again as if he could erase the hurt with each touch.
That night, I texted my sister. [Clarke, I’ve decided to trust Louis again.]
And Louis Altair, true to his word, made a public statement right after.
"Laura Madison and I are not in the kind of relationship people have been speculating about. I’ll be marrying my fiancée in three days. I hope you’ll give us your supports."
