At my engagement party, Denver's friends asked him what the most thrilling thing he'd ever done was. Some guessed it was when he proposed to me after arranging ten thousand roses on Mount Everest. Others joked it might’ve been the first night we spent together.
Embarrassed by their teasing and worried Denver might overdo it with the booze, I slipped out to buy some hangover pills for him.
I hadn’t gone far when I heard his voice, slow and deliberate, cutting through the laughter.
“You guys are wrong. It’s none of that. The most thrilling thing I’ve ever done was making Brielle to look just like Sabrina.”
——
The cool night air felt even colder as I turned back for my coat. His words stopped me in my tracks.
The lively chatter from the private lounge instantly fell silent. After what felt like forever, someone finally broke the tension with a nervous laugh.
“Wow, that’s um…I didn’t see it coming.”
“Man, Denver is still not over Sabrina. She’s been gone for years. Honestly, I can’t even remember what she looked like anymore. But he does. I guess that shows how much he loves her.”
“Speaking of Sabrina, I heard she's flying back from Paris tomorrow. What are you going to tell Brielle? How are you going to explain it to your wife?”
Denver didn’t answer, his voice slurred, “She is not my wife.”
Those five words shattered every last bit of hope I had. Tears welled up in my eyes, threatening to spill. Panicking, I bolted down the hallway to the restroom, desperate not to let anyone see me break. As I stumbled, memories from the past six years played on a cruel loop in my mind.
Denver and I had met through a mutual friend, who set us up on a blind date. He was a famous cosmetic surgeon, well-known across the country. From the moment we met, his eyes never left me. They were lit up like firecrackers, fixed on mine like I was the only person in the room.
After that, he pursued me relentlessly—bouquets of flowers, designer gifts, everything I could ever want. Even the stars didn’t seem out of reach when he promised them to me.
My friends and coworkers were envious, saying I’d found a one-in-a-million man.
And me? I fell for him, hard.
The moment I knew I had fell completely was after a near-death experience.
We were walking through the city, hand in hand, when suddenly a car lost control and sped toward us. Without hesitation, Denver threw himself in front of me, shielding me with his body. He ended up with three broken ribs, while I walked away with just a few scratches on my face.
He was wracked with guilt for weeks, constantly blaming himself. Then, he offered to fix the scars on my face, using the opportunity to confess his love.
“I’m so sorry, Brielle. I couldn’t protect you the way I should’ve. Let me make it right. I’ll give you an even more beautiful face and an even better life. Will you be with me and let me make up for my mistakes?”
Back then, lost in the illusion of love, I was deeply moved.
Never did it occur to me that he was using that moment to mold me into the image of his first love. Now, staring at the face in the mirror, tears blurred my vision.
No wonder he always held my face so tenderly during our intimate moments. I’d thought it was love—deep, passionate love. But I was wrong. It wasn’t me he cradle in affection. It was his first love—Sabrina Dyer
Thank God I’d refused the bone-sculpting surgery because of my fear of pain and only agreed to minor adjustments. And thank God I’d only accepted Denver’s proposal and hadn’t yet married him. It wasn’t too late. Wiping my tears away, I pulled out my phone and made a call.
“Chief, I’d like to apply for the frontline journalist position in South Africa.”
“That’s fantastic! A stint like that would do wonders for your career. But you’d have to sign a confidentiality agreement and sever all contact with the outside world. You’re about to get married—will your fiancé agree to this?”
Just as I was about to respond, my phone pinged with a new message.
