He took time off and flew back early so we could get the marriage certificate first.
I teased him, “I’m not someone who breaks promises. How could I possibly run?”
He gripped my hand and slowly interlaced our fingers like a child delighted with a new toy. The usually composed man looked small and happy.
“I was so afraid you’d run,” he admitted. He couldn’t wait another second; he dragged me straight to the registry. Only when the certificate sat heavy in our hands did his relief feel complete.
That night, on our wedding night, Adrian texted: “Okay, I’m not angry anymore. Come back soon. The house feels empty without you.”
I didn’t reply.
The day after, Damien had to leave for overseas work. Before he left he pressed an unlimited gold bank card and keys to his villa into my hands. Then I moved, got back to work, and tried to stitch my life together.
Then Miranda showed up at the boutique asking me—insincerely—to design her wedding dress. “I heard you’re the best. Why don’t you make mine?” she purred. “Money’s no object.” She flashed a card I immediately recognized as Adrian’s account—eleven million dollars sitting in plain sight.
I kept it professional and drafted designs to her specs. She hated every one. When she realized I wasn’t crumbling, she goaded me. “My wedding to Adrian is coming. Can you even handle that?”
“A great designer wouldn’t be this calm, right?” she laughed. “No wonder he dumped you—you're like a dead fish.”
I met her with cold clarity. “At least I’m not a chicken, clucking all day.”
She snapped, raised a hand to slap me, and I caught it mid-air. “If you don’t want the world to know you’re a mistress, go on—play the part.” She wrenched free and glared like a spoiled queen.
She finally picked the most extravagant gown in the house and demanded, “Help me try it on.”
“This dress is twenty million dollars,” I warned. “Once you sign, there’s no return.”
She scoffed. “You’re such a pauper. My husband can afford anything. He won’t waste it on someone like you.”
I said nothing — secretly savoring the thought of him going bankrupt. I helped her into the dress. Halfway up the back zipper she flopped to the floor, feigning pain and accusations: “You’re pinching me! It’s not my fault he doesn’t want you!” Her sobs were perfectly timed.
She called Adrian. He arrived moments later, saw her on the floor, and immediately turned on me. “Serena, where did you learn to be such a shrew?” he spat. “I’m so disappointed in you.”
I laughed, because his disappointment felt hollow. Miranda moaned and clutched at him. He gathered her to his chest like a saint and, without ceremony, slapped me — hard.
It was the first time he’d ever hit me. The slap stunned me into silence. I was about to fight back when my boss—who happened to be on friendly terms with Adrian—stepped in and put a hand between us.
He stepped between us and urged everyone to calm down, but Adrian’s anger didn’t cool. Turning to my boss, he said, “Her temper’s getting worse. Send her on a six-month overseas assignment—let her calm down.”
“If Miranda hadn’t been so kind, she’d have been locked up long ago.”
My boss gave me an awkward look. He ran an overseas wedding-dress branch—in the same city Damien was working in. Without thinking, I said, “I’ll go.”
The next day Adrian leaned on my boss until the transfer was arranged. He messaged me, “Calm down. I’ll pick you up at Lunar New Year,” then posted online: “Wedding postponed. My girlfriend is unmanageable. We’ll see.”
I moved overseas with Damien and, not long after, I was pregnant. The next time I saw Adrian, my belly was already showing. He and Miranda were in my restaurant; he looked wild with excitement and stared at my bump as if it were a prize. “Serena, I was coming to find you—our baby’s almost here. Why didn’t you tell me?”
