I completely cut off contact with him.
Kenji.
After everything he’d done—ripping my heart in two, betraying every ounce of trust, and defiling our bed with her—he had the nerve to act like he was the one wronged.
As if he were the victim.
My phone lit up endlessly. Missed calls. Streams of messages. Voicemails stacking up one after another.
He just wouldn’t stop.
And the moment Tristan sent out the invitations for the wedding—my wedding to Zion, just a week away—that’s when Kenji finally lost his mind.
It started with the confused messages, sounding almost innocent:
Kenji:
“What’s with this invite?”
“You’re seriously getting married? Who’s the unlucky guy?”
“This has to be a joke, right?”
“Wait—is it April Fools? Is this you and Tristan pulling some twisted prank again?”
“Okay, funny. You got me.”
Then, his tone changed. He became desperate. Clingy. Like the past half-year hadn’t happened.
Kenji:
“Hey, when you’re back, can you cook that spicy shrimp dish I’m addicted to?”
“I’ve been missing your food… your scent… everything.”
“Come home soon, alright? Please.”
“Celeste. Babe. Talk to me.”
As though I had just taken a short break and forgotten to bring him back a souvenir.
I didn’t even bother replying. I turned my phone off and buried it deep in a drawer, far enough that even the faintest buzz wouldn’t reach me.
He didn’t deserve space in my thoughts anymore. Or in my chest. Or my soul.
Yes, I had once loved him—so deeply it felt like my ribs might crack from the pressure of it.
Yes, there had been a part of me that imagined a forever with him.
But that part of me?
She was gone now. Buried in silence, right beside the two little hearts I never got the chance to know.
---
Kenji’S POV
I had tried calling her twenty-seven damn times.
Twenty-seven.
Each time went directly to voicemail. Not even one ring to give me hope.
“Pick up the damn phone!” I snarled, pacing my place like a lion in a cage. In one furious move, I hurled my phone against the wall. It shattered. Fine. Who cared? I could buy a dozen more by sunset.
But what I couldn’t buy back?
Power.
Celeste was gone—and not just in the physical sense. She’d evaporated. Disappeared from my world. No replies. No posts. No signs. Just a vacuum of silence.
And that silence? It was more painful than any screaming match we’d ever had.
I tore open the fridge in frustration. Leftover takeout. That ridiculous chili paste she loved on everything. I slammed it shut with a curse.
This was so her. Drama queen. She always loved big gestures. Always overflowing with emotion like some kind of bleeding romantic. Yeah, I messed up. A few times, maybe more. So what?
What woman doesn’t eventually forgive the guy who knows exactly how to tear her down and patch her back up again?
She’d come crawling back. She always did.
That was Celeste’s entire personality—codependent, obsessive, overly attached to her favorite poison.
Me.
She used to look at me like I held every answer in the world. Like I was her personal fairytale. Her once-upon-a-time and happily-ever-after all rolled into one.
She called it love.
I called it... convenience.
It worked out, didn’t it? I tossed her scraps, and she handed me the world.
Hell, she practically paid my way through everything. Old money. Loaded. She covered every bill and never blinked. And I? I lived off it. I even bought gifts for Chloe using Celeste’s credit cards.
Why not? That was Celeste’s whole vibe—blind devotion.
And me?
I never pretended to be perfect. Never claimed I was anything more than selfish.
Chloe? She matched me. She was chaos in heels. She didn’t beg for my heart. She just wanted my time, my body, and the thrill.
Celeste?
She wanted the whole damn soul.
And I gave her none of it.
Until she finally broke.
That’s when I noticed something odd. A piece of paper sticking out of the drawer near the hallway console. Curious, I yanked it out, expecting it to be one of her lists or maybe some grocery receipt.
But the title at the top hit me like a sledgehammer:
“Emergency Surgery Report – Post-Miscarriage Intervention.”
My stomach dropped. I read through the details, my vision swimming.
Blunt trauma. Internal bleeding.
Pregnant.
With twins.
Neither survived.
Her name. Her signature. The date. The time. It was all there, staring back at me like judgment incarnate.
Twins.
I never knew.
She never told me.
Because I never cared enough to ask.
I stumbled backward, winded. My chest tightened, a sick twist forming in my gut.
The paper was still in my shaking hand when Leo barged into the room, oblivious and hyped. “Bro! Kenji, man—yo, you need to see this!”
“Not in the mood.”
“Dude, yes now. Tristan just dropped the link in the group chat—it’s happening. Live.”
“What’s happening?”
He thrust a tablet at me. “The wedding, man.”
I frowned, confused. “What wedding?”
Leo beamed. “Celeste’s. She’s getting married.”
