Chapter 3

The next day, I packed up my art supplies and showed up at Mason's wedding.

Mason looked at me with a satisfied smile on his face.

"Fiona, you've always been such an understanding girlfriend."

My heart clenched sharply.

Those words — understanding girlfriend — cut into me like a blade, leaving a wound I couldn't close.

Five years together, but we were apart far more than we were close. The time we'd actually spent in the same place barely added up to a year.

Mason always said he was swamped with work — ten months out of the year, he was supposedly away on business trips. I never once complained.

When he vented about his boss docking his pay and bonuses, I quietly transferred half my own income into his account.

Once, I was hospitalized and needed surgery. I kept it from him the whole time so he wouldn't worry.

When he found out afterward, it was the first time I ever saw his eyes go red.

"Fiona, you don't have to be so strong all the time. You still have me."

I never forgot those words.

But the person who said them seemed to have forgotten them completely.

Mason reached out of habit and ruffled my hair.

I kept my head down and stepped back without making a sound.

He noticed the distance. I saw his chest rise and fall sharply.

I didn't have the energy to care. I quietly followed his assistant toward the wedding venue.

The ceremony was held at Mason's private estate.

Under crystal chandeliers that blazed like daylight, a sea of flowers stretched in every direction.

The reception hall was filled with nearly five hundred tables. The scale of it was breathtaking.

And I suddenly felt like a joke.

When we were planning our own wedding, Mason had said:

"It's just a formality. Let's keep it simple."

"You know how I feel about marriage."

I understood. I gave in, over and over again.

No flowers. Scaled-back everything.

A small venue on the outskirts of the city. Five tables.

But now I could see — his "anti-marriage" stance had been nothing but an excuse.

The truth was simple: he never wanted to marry me.

The deeper I walked into the venue, the larger the crowd grew, and the louder the whispers became.

"Isn't that the woman Mason keeps on the side? And she actually had the nerve to show up here?"

"Shameless. She looked decent enough from the outside — never would've guessed."

"She's the wedding artist? Some broke little painter. Like she'd ever step foot in a place like this if she hadn't latched onto Mason."

My feet stopped moving. The air felt like it had been sucked out of the room.

The murmurs slithered through the crowd and gnawed at my already shredded heart.

I wanted to say something — to tell them I wasn't the other woman, that Mason and I had been together for five years.

But I opened my mouth, then pressed it shut again.

Who would believe me?

The bride today wasn't me. That said everything.

I endured the stares and the pointed fingers, quietly set up my easel and art supplies, and gripped my paintbrush tight, pretending I couldn't hear a single word.

Then the wedding march drowned out everything else.

Every pair of eyes turned to the radiant couple at the altar.

In front of everyone, Chris looked at Mason and said the words: "I do."

I steadied my trembling hand and painted the moment they kissed.

Even though I had braced myself for this,

a deep, helpless ache still bloomed in my chest, spreading through me like cracks in glass.

Then came the toast.

As I expected, Chris walked over on Mason's arm.

She raised her glass with a practiced smile.

"You must be the artist. Thank you so much for capturing our happiness today."

I pulled together a faint smile. "I can't drink."

Chris bit her lip, and tears welled in her eyes almost instantly:

"Mason, I guess I'm just not important enough to her."

Mason pulled her close. "It's your day, baby. Whatever you say goes."

He turned to look at me, his gaze heavy with pressure.

I held his stare without flinching.

The pregnancy test tucked in my pocket felt like a brand pressed against my skin.

"Mason, do you really need to make me drink this?"

His brow creased with impatience. "It's just one drink."

I let out a quiet, bitter laugh and said nothing more.

I took the glass and drained it.

The liquor burned a trail from my throat straight down to my stomach, and a sharp cramp twisted through my lower abdomen.

By the time I swallowed the last drop, the final ember inside me went cold.