“Of course I remember.”
Ronald laughed at her playfulness：
“You weighed, what, barely a hundred pounds back then? And you carried me on your back when I was a hundred and forty, huffing and puffing the whole way. I remember thinking, does this girl have a crush on me or what?”
Hope's cheeks flushed. She reached over and pressed her hand against his mouth.
“Oh, please! Nobody but Millie would ever look twice at you. Don't flatter yourself. I only helped because she's my best friend!”
“What's there to worry about? Millie's not an outsider.”
Ronald caught her hand and held it, then turned to me：
“Right, Millie? The three of us have been close for so many years. We're practically family.”
I tugged at the corners of my mouth. Said nothing.
Love doesn't turn into family.
The moment a lover becomes family,
the lover's place is left empty.
They sat there in front of me, shamelessly sharing memories that belonged only to the two of them.
Their ski trip to Aspen last winter.
The concert they went to together last month.
The cat they adopted together, the one they named “Mochi.”
That cat. Ronald told me it belonged to a friend who needed someone to look after it.
And because I was allergic to cat hair, he never once let me come see it.
“I'm not feeling well. I'm going to head out.”
I grabbed my bag and left.
Ronald called after me：
“Millie, what's wrong? Are you feeling sick? Want Hope to go with you?”
I didn't look back：
“No need. Just focus on getting better.”
“Hope, take care of him for me.”
“Don't worry, Millie! I'll take great care of him!”
Hope's voice couldn't quite hide how happy she was.
I walked out of the room, leaned against the hallway wall, and gulped for air.
The tears finally came.
I took out my phone and scrolled to a number I'd never saved but knew by heart.
It belonged to the man my mother had been trying to set me up with. Percival Henson, heir to the Henson Group.
My mother said that if I agreed to marry Percival, the Hensons would invest enough to pull our family through the crisis.
I'd always refused.
I told her I loved Ronald, that I wanted to marry for love.
Now that felt like a joke.
He picked up after three rings.
A low, resonant voice came through the line：
“Ms. Pruitt? I didn't expect you to call me first.”
I took a deep breath, forcing my voice steady：
“Mr. Henson, the marriage arrangement you proposed. I accept.”
A pause on his end.
“You're sure?”
“I'm sure.”
“The date will be June eighteenth.”
The same date Ronald and I had settled on for our wedding.
Percival didn't ask why：
“Done. I'll take care of everything. My assistant will send the contract over tomorrow.”
“No need to send it to me. Send it directly to my father. He handles the business side.”
“Thank you.”
“No need for thanks. The pleasure is mine.”
After I hung up, I deleted every photo of Ronald from my phone.
When it was done, I lifted my head.
Sunlight pooled at the far end of the hallway.
My heart was still.
The day Ronald was discharged, I went to pick him up.
The moment he saw me, his face lit up：
“Millie! I thought you were mad at me. I figured you wouldn't come.”
Even though he assumed I was upset, he hadn't sent a single message in all those days.
When someone cares, it's hard to hide.
When they don't, that's hard to hide too.
I pulled my lips into a smile：
“Why wouldn't I? I'm your fiancée. Of course I came.”
