Chapter 3 of When My Fiancé Chose My Best Friend Over Me

Declan didn't leave.

I heard him through the door. Pacing. His breathing uneven. Brittany's voice, softer now, asking him something I couldn't make out.

I sat on the couch. The champagne was still all over the floor. Glass glittered in the morning light. I looked at my knuckles. They were split. Blood had dried in the creases.

I felt nothing.

Then he knocked.

"Hazel." His voice came through the wood. Quieter now. The edge gone. "Can we just talk? Please?"

I didn't answer.

"I know you're angry. You have every right. But this—" He paused. I heard him touch something. The doorframe maybe. "This doesn't have to end everything."

I stood.

I walked to the bedroom. I locked the door behind me.

The pounding started immediately.

"Hazel! Open the door!"

I went to the closet. I pulled out a black dress. Simple. High neck. Long sleeves. I had bought it for a funeral two years ago and never worn it again.

I put it on now.

"You're being insane!" His voice was louder. The charm was slipping. "You think you're the only one who sacrificed? You think I didn't give up anything?"

I zipped the dress. I looked at myself in the mirror.

The scar along my collarbone showed above the neckline. I had always worn it uncovered. A billboard, he had said. LOOK WHAT I DID FOR YOU.

I found a scarf. I wrapped it twice. The scar disappeared.

"Hazel, please!" His fist hit the door. Once. Twice. "You know what we have. You know what I wrote you. A thousand letters. That was real. This is just—it's just a mistake. It doesn't change what we are."

I opened the bedroom door.

He stumbled back. His face was red. His eyes were wet.

I walked past him.

"Where are you going?" He followed me into the living room. Brittany was on the couch now. Someone had given her a towel. She held it to her face. Her eyes tracked me but she didn't speak.

I picked up my phone from the console.

Declan saw it. Something shifted in his expression.

"What are you doing?"

I didn't answer.

I opened the folder. The one I had transferred at four in the morning while he slept. I selected every file. Videos. Screenshots. The full text thread, months long, every cruel word they had ever said about me laid out in order.

I opened Instagram first.

My finger hovered over the share button.

"Hazel." His voice dropped. Careful now. Like I was something breakable. "Don't do this."

I looked at him.

He touched the back of his neck. Brief. Reflexive. Then he made eye contact.

"You're upset," he said. "I get it. But if you do this, you can't take it back. Think about what you're doing. Think about us."

I smiled.

Then I pressed share.

The first video uploaded in seconds. The one from my guest bedroom. The pillowcases we picked out together clearly visible in the frame.

I tagged Declan. I tagged Brittany. I tagged his parents. I tagged the wedding venue. I tagged every name on the 400-guest invite list I had spent six months building.

I wrote the caption: "The wedding is canceled. Here is why."

I posted it.

Declan lunged for the phone. I stepped back. He missed.

"Stop!" His voice cracked. "Hazel, stop!"

I opened Facebook.

I posted it again.

Twitter. The same.

Then I opened the Griffin family group chat. The one his mother had added me to three years ago with a message that said, Welcome to the family, sweetheart.

I uploaded everything.

Every video. Every screenshot. Every text where they called me pathetic, suffocating, a charity case with a savior complex.

I hit send.

The phone buzzed immediately. Notifications flooded the screen. Comments. Messages. Calls.

I turned the volume off.

I set the phone down.

I looked at Declan.

He stared at the screen. His face had gone white. His mouth opened but nothing came out.

Brittany made a sound. Small. Broken.

I walked to the door. I opened it.

"Get out," I said.

Declan didn't move. He was still staring at the phone. At the notifications that wouldn't stop.