"What makes you think that?" The words scraped past the tightness in my throat.
"Your father manufactures ballistics." Brandon's lip curled. "Among everyone at that meeting, you were the only one with access to that specific type of blasting device."
Heat seared behind my eyes. The room blurred.
"And another thing..."
He shoved past the security guards. One step. Two. Each footfall closed the distance between us like a death knell.
"You usually fly into a rage if I so much as speak to another woman." His voice dripped venom. "Yet *you* went to see her? *You*, of all people, initiated a meeting to call off our engagement?"
"Brandon—"
A short, broken laugh escaped him. His eyes were bloodshot, raw—a mirror of the agony ripping through my chest.
"I was a fool. I actually thought you were capable of kindness." He let out another hollow sound. "I personally brought you—her murderer—right to her doorstep."
The laugh came again. Then his hand connected with his own face.
*Crack.*
The sound ricocheted off the walls.
"Now there's no one left between us. I'm going to bind you to me for the rest of my life." His voice dropped to something lethal. "Is that what you wanted? Are you happy now?"
"Brandon!"
The tears finally broke free, streaking hot and fast down my cheeks.
He didn't look back. He turned on his heel, staggering slightly—as if grief itself had settled across his shoulders like a physical weight—and walked away.
Blood dripped from his sleeve. A crimson trail on the pavement.
A souvenir from the chandelier that had sliced him when he shielded me from the blast.
---
A memorial wall rose from the ruins.
Her photo sat at the center, surrounded by flowers. Brandon stood before it.
From a distance, I watched him place a bouquet of white chrysanthemums beneath her picture. My feet stayed rooted to the ground. I didn't dare call out to him until his car had disappeared around the corner.
I had truly wanted those two to be together.
During the investigation, I'd exhausted every resource trying to find background information on her. But there had been nothing. No paper trail. No history. She had died before a single clue could surface.
Whether for Brandon or for me, "The One That Got Away" had become an unsolvable riddle.
Sealed by death.
I returned home in a daze.
For three days, food wouldn't stay down. My stomach churned with acid and guilt, hollowing me out from the inside.
On the fourth night, Dad knocked on my door. A bowl of seafood porridge steamed in his hands.
"Drink this." His voice was gentle but firm. "Then I'll tell you the truth about that girl."
My head lifted. The words felt distant, muffled. "She's already dead, Dad. What I wanted to do... it's impossible now."
Brandon would hate me forever. The debt of a saved life and the regrets of a past lifetime could never be repaid.
"I don't think she's dead."
The air vanished from my lungs.
I forced myself to finish the porridge. Dad sat with me for another half hour before leaving. The moment the door closed behind him, I stood.
My subordinate was waiting in the hallway.
I handed him a slip of paper with an address. "Go. Bring her back."
"Yes, Miss Thomas."
I watched him walk away. A solitary tear slipped down my cheek.
If Dad was right...
Then I hoped, this time, those two could finally be together properly.
---
The forensic results came back not long after.
A contract killing. Someone had hired a hitman to eliminate a business rival and bribed the stage crew to bury explosives during the venue setup.
I was innocent.
Brandon came to see me.
I refused.
He begged my father. Desperate. Pleading. Until he was finally allowed to stand outside my door. He didn't dare ask to come in. Instead, he spoke through the wood paneling, his voice thick with something I almost didn't recognize.
Remorse.
"It was me. I didn't distinguish right from wrong. I blamed you because I lost my mind with grief." A pause. "I'm sorry."
Silence stretched between us.
"Your face... is it healing?"
I stayed quiet, my forehead pressed against the cool surface of the door.
"She's gone," he continued. His voice cracked. "And I've given up. In this life, as long as you're willing, I will play the role of a devoted husband. If you regret marrying me, I will leave with nothing."
Another pause.
"Consider it... my atonement for that slap."
He had come to apologize.
But beneath the sincerity, I heard it. The thing he couldn't hide.
Resignation. Regret.
We had grown up together. I knew every cadence of his voice.
How could I not hear it?
A heavy sigh echoed from the other side of the door.
His footsteps retreated, fading into the distance.
I yanked the door open.
Empty. The hallway stretched before me, hollow and silent. He was already gone.
Tears slid down my face, cold and unbidden. A bitter laugh escaped my throat.
"Don't worry, Brandon." My voice was barely a whisper. "The wedding dress has already been altered to her size. You won't have any regrets in this life."
My subordinate materialized beside me, a document in hand. "Miss Thomas, the marriage contract from the Gu family. President Thomas said he will only sign if you agree."
"Sign it."
The words came out flat. Dead.
I looked in the direction Brandon had disappeared. I didn't ask about the Gu family. Didn't ask which heir I was being sold to.
It didn't matter anymore.
---
Before the ceremony began, Brandon stood staring at that girl's photo.
My subordinate had to urge him twice before he finally tore his gaze away. Reluctantly, he tossed the photo into the trash can—a symbolic gesture of moving on.
He pushed open the chapel doors.
The girl's smiling face was hidden beneath a veil, waiting for him. He knew exactly how Nora Thomas smiled. He held no expectations.
His heart was dead ash.
He stepped up to the altar. Casually lifted the veil.
His hand froze mid-air.
Ice flooded his veins.
"You... you're not dead?"
The girl leaned shyly into his arms, her eyes darting around. "I... I jumped from the building that day and fainted. I couldn't contact you while I was recovering. I'm so sorry~"
"Where is Nora?"
He shoved her away. His voice rose to a shout.
"Older sister..." she stammered.
She couldn't—or wouldn't—answer.
Brandon turned and sprinted out of the chapel.
He dialed my number with trembling fingers.
*No answer.*
He floored the gas pedal, ignoring the girl in the wedding dress chasing after him, screaming his name.
"Nora Thomas! What the hell are you doing?!"
