chapter 4

I had already planned everything in advance. The date was set, and I was just about to finalize the details of the shoot with the bridal shop when I saw them.

Across the room, Brad had his arm draped casually around Lara's shoulder. The two of them stood close, flipping through a photo album with wide smiles, completely at ease—until they saw me.

The joy drained from their faces in an instant.

Brad's expression stiffened, and he instinctively pulled his arm back from Lara.

Then he strode over and dragged me aside, placing himself between me and Lara like he couldn't bear for her to see me.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped. "Ellen, why can't you just leave me alone?"

The frustration on his face wasn't even masked. To him, my presence was a burden, my existence a problem to be solved.

"What's that in your hand?" he asked sharply, eyeing the envelope I was holding.

Before I could respond, he snatched the wedding photo samples from me and flipped through them with a scowl. Without a word, he tossed them to the ground like they were trash.

"I already told you—I don't want to get married! Why are you still choosing wedding photos? If you're so desperate to get married, go find someone else. I'm not marrying you!"

His voice was ice cold, his words cutting with no intention of softening the blow. He didn't leave me a shred of dignity.

I didn't say a word. I simply knelt down, picked up the discarded photos, and gently brushed off the dirt.

He looked genuinely confused. He probably expected a scene—a tantrum, a slap, maybe tears. But I didn't give him that. And that made him uneasy.

"I'm leaving now," I said quietly and turned to go.

But Brad grabbed my arm, hard.

Pain shot up through my shoulder, and I winced.

"Stop trying to manipulate me into marriage, Ellen," he sneered. "Have a little self-respect."

He let go of me with a sharp jerk, throwing me off balance.

Then, without another glance, he went back to Lara.

As he walked away, I heard his voice carried by the wind—loud enough for Lara to hear.

"She's just a friend. I had no idea she still had feelings for me."

He was desperate to draw the line, desperate to make sure Lara wouldn't misunderstand.

I let out a soft, bitter laugh.

Well, just as you wished, Brad—I really am marrying someone else.

Brad must have sensed something different in me that day. Surprisingly, he showed up to pick me up after work.

When I saw the familiar black Mercedes parked outside the office building, I was caught off guard.

As soon as I got in, he handed me a bouquet of red roses, his expression a little guilty.

"Today, I swear, Lara and I were just taking a family photo," he explained quickly. "She has no family left. Her only wish was to have a proper photo with people she considers close. That's all it was. Don't take it the wrong way."

I kept my expression neutral, but inside, I laughed bitterly.

A family photo? Dressed like that? Standing that close?

Trying to make amends, he continued, "Let me take you to dinner. There's a new seafood restaurant downtown—I tried it once, and the food's amazing."

His tone was overly gentle, and he watched my face carefully for any sign of a reaction.

I let out a sigh.

He had forgotten that I'm allergic to seafood.

"No, just take me home," I said tiredly, rejecting him.

Brad's face darkened. With a loud thud, he slammed his hand against the steering wheel.

"Are you kidding me? What's your deal now? I'm telling you, if you won't have dinner with me, there are plenty of other women who will!"

With that, he pulled out his phone and called Lara right in front of me.

I sat quietly as the two of them cheerfully arranged dinner plans. The whole scene felt like a cheap sitcom with a predictable ending.

In three days, I'm getting married. Whatever Brad does, or whoever he does it with—it no longer has anything to do with me.

In the end, I didn't get into Brad's car.

Later that night, lying on my bed and scrolling through my phone, I suddenly came across a post Lara had just shared.

"Someone said a few words about me, and he got into a fight over it. Seriously, how old is he? Twelve?"

The picture that went with it was a blurry shot of Brad's back, sitting in an interrogation room at the local precinct.

My grip on the phone tightened.

I couldn't help but think back to the time Brad and I were out at dinner. A man made a few crude remarks toward me, loud enough for anyone to hear. But Brad just kept eating, as if nothing had happened.

Even when I got upset and told him how it made me feel, he snapped at me.

"It's your fault for wearing a skirt that short. Do you really think they wouldn't have said anything? Maybe take a look at yourself before pointing fingers."

After that night, I never wore a skirt again.

The memory stung. So I picked up my phone, photographed the marriage certificate still tucked in my drawer, and began typing a caption.

My hands didn't tremble this time.

"Here's to the rest of my life—looking forward to it."

I hit post. Less than a minute later, my phone lit up with Brad's name. He was calling.