On the way home, I called my mother back.
"Mom, Lance and I aren't getting married."
The line went quiet for a few seconds, and then came a long, drawn-out sigh.
"Then come home."
"Okay."
The moment I hung up, my phone lit again.
A system reminder popped up on the screen.
【Today marks your seventh anniversary with Mr. Lance Simmons.】
I looked at the watch already tucked in my bag and let out a bitter laugh.
I'd planned to use this little surprise on our seventh anniversary to bring up marriage with him, properly this time.
By the time he got home, the hour hand on the wall had already swung to ten.
He set an iced latte on the table, his tone flat.
"I had dinner with Melanie today, talked over some things about the group home. That's why I'm late."
I gave a small "mm," then lifted my head and looked at this man I'd loved for seven years, and I opened my mouth like I wanted to punish myself.
"Lance, when are we getting married?"
I wanted an answer from his own mouth, the kind that would kill every last bit of hope in me.
His hand froze halfway out of his coat, his brows knitting tight.
"Have you lost your mind?"
"It's 2026. We agreed our wedding would be in 2030."
"Frances, bringing this up now, you're throwing off my whole plan."
I couldn't help laughing out loud. Right, I'd almost forgotten his rules.
But if the woman he was marrying were Melanie, he'd probably rush off to sign the papers with her tomorrow.
Early the next morning, I handed in my resignation.
Adrian looked at me, his face full of regret.
"Frances, it wasn't easy getting to where you are. Are you sure you want to quit?"
I looked out the window and nodded.
"Yes."
I hadn't seen my mother in a long time. I missed her.
Every time she came to visit me, arms loaded with bags, Lance was unhappy.
He said he didn't like being disturbed in his private time, and every time he'd go cold and find some excuse to send her off to a hotel.
The thought of it soured in my chest all over again.
Adrian sighed.
"All right, then."
The paperwork was done that same day.
Back home, I booked a ten a.m. flight for the next day, then started packing.
Clothes, toiletries, odds and ends. Before long I'd stuffed it all into the suitcase.
At last I sat down on the floor and opened my phone.
The account the two of us managed together came up.
From the day I first came to Ashford three years ago, we'd agreed that each month we'd each deposit half our salary as a family fund for the future.
But the instant the page loaded, my whole body went rigid.
The balance read $0.00.
I put in $700 every month, without fail. He put in $850. Three years of that came to $216,000.
That was my blood and sweat, every bit of savings I'd scraped together living cheap in a strange city after quitting my job back home.
With trembling fingers, I tapped open the transaction history.
The transfer time on the screen: yesterday, 22:47.
I grabbed my phone at once and confronted Lance.
"Where's the money in our account?"
It was a long while before he answered.
"Melanie wants to open a flower shop here in Ashford, and she was short on cash, so I lent it to her."
"But don't worry, she'll pay you back with bank interest."
I stared at the cold words on the screen, and it felt like I couldn't breathe.
I thought of last winter, when I fell seriously ill right after making my deposit. The hospital wanted a $3,000 admission deposit, and I cried while I asked him if we could take a little out of the account for the emergency.
