3: 3
My nails dug in until they nearly broke skin, and my lashes wouldn't stop trembling.
Seven years together, and here I was, learning from another woman how to chase my own fiancé.
I stared at those innocent eyes of hers for a long moment, and in the end I nodded.
In the car, I opened her social feed, and the cover photo was a wedding-style shot.
The background was the athletic field of our old college campus, and the man's face was turned away.
But I knew at a glance it was Garry.
The two of them looked so young, so raw, the hormones of that first love practically bursting off the screen.
Tears slid down my cheeks without a sound. I lifted a hand and wiped them lightly away.
Almost home, we hit traffic.
His phone screen lit up. A message from one of his friends:
"If you ask me, just drop this whole thing with Myra. Playing marriage like a game to bait Lucinda back really isn't worth it. I watched her today, and honestly, Lucinda's probably already moved on from you."
My breath caught.
I pressed his finger to the screen to unlock it.
And saw what he'd vented to his friend two days ago:
"I really have no interest in Myra, none of that kind of thing at all. I guess I still haven't gotten over Lucinda. I want to be brave one more time. A sham marriage. This is my last chance."
My finger froze, and I shut the phone off hard.
But my breathing wouldn't slow down.
No matter how I opened my mouth, the air just wouldn't reach my chest.
The tears came harder along the corners of my eyes.
No wonder he'd suddenly proposed three days ago.
No ring. No home for us. No engagement gifts.
Just one line: Don't tell the family.
I'd thought it was guilt, that he hadn't given me a proper courtship.
It never occurred to me that the wedding I'd waited seven years for was nothing but a chip to lure Lucinda home.
I marked the message unread and slipped his phone back into his pocket.
Once we got home, he'd sobered a little, and went to shower.
I sat frozen on the couch.
His words filling every corner of my head.
No interest in me. None of that kind of thing.
The sheer refusal to accept it nearly crushed whatever sense I had left.
The sound of water in the bathroom softened.
I stood up abruptly and went back to the bedroom.
Standing at the wardrobe, I took out the white dress I'd bought two years ago.
He'd said he didn't like dresses, so after I bought it I never wore it again.
I pulled the dress on, and, taking Lucinda's advice, tied my long hair into a high ponytail.
Then I went back to the couch and turned off the light.
The room went dark all at once, only a hazy wash of moonlight left.
Garry pushed the door open, wrapped in a towel.
I could hear his breathing turn heavy in an instant.
No time to turn around.
The next second, he had me pinned to the couch.
Kisses rained down thick and fast, until I could barely breathe.
They moved from the corner of my lips to my jaw.
Then to my collarbone, my chest.
The moment the dress was pulled down, the small scar on my chest showed.
He stopped.
He jerked upright and swung his hand across my face.
"Who told you to dress like this? Take it off!"
Catching himself, he quickly softened, coaxing me:
"Myra, I didn't mean it that way. I mean, you look too tempting like this. I was afraid I'd lose control."
"I promised you we'd wait for our wedding night..."
"Afraid you'd lose control, so you hit me?"
I cut him off, my voice cold with scorn.
He blanked for a couple of seconds, then rushed to defend himself:
"Because I love you. Hitting you hurts me more than hitting myself would, and it snaps me out of it faster."
I pointed at the scar on my chest.
"This. You told me you burned it by accident when you were drunk. But Lucinda has a mole in the exact same spot."
His brow knotted in an instant.
"It's just a coincidence. Don't blow it out of proportion."
"I drank too much tonight. I don't want to fight with you."
With that, he turned, walked to the cabinet, and downed the water in his glass in one go.
He slammed the glass down on the table.
Then he turned and went back to the bedroom.
I couldn't help the bitter smile.
Lucinda's method really did work.
The power of an old flame. I'd finally learned it firsthand.
The next day was the day we'd booked for our wedding photos.
Early that morning my boss called, asking about the overseas transfer.
"Yes, I've already packaged up the files on my desk and sent them to my colleagues. Anything that comes up later I can handle from abroad."
"Abroad? You're going abroad?"
