Chapter 6

Serena’s POV

Right as the bride and groom stepped onto the stage, a loud snap echoed through the ceiling.

A mounting bolt on the massive crystal chandelier sheared off.

With a shrieking tear of twisted metal, the multi-ton chandelier plummeted straight toward the aisle where I was standing.

Julian reacted with lightning speed. He shoved me hard out of the way.

The falling crystal shards sliced a deep gash down his right forearm.

Chaos erupted instantly. Guests knocked over chairs as they scrambled for the exits, and shattered wine glasses pooled red across the floor.

I hit the floor hard, the back of my head striking the sharp edge of a table. Darkness swam across my vision as I collapsed in the aisle.

I wasn't fully unconscious. I could clearly hear the thunderous footsteps around me, and the smell of burnt electrical wiring filled my nostrils.

I heard Julian frantically pulling out his phone and shouting into the line, his voice ragged: "The chandelier collapsed in the ballroom! Send the medical transport right now!"

"My wife is in the VIP lounge next door, terrified out of her mind, and my son is running a high fever from the shock! Get them to the hospital first!"

"Serena just got a few scratches out here. She's fine. Send a second car for her later!"

Lying on the freezing carpet, a single tear tracked down the corner of my eye and soaked into my hair.

One second ago, Julian was screaming that he would give his life for me.

The next second, when real life and death were on the line, his number one priority would always, unquestionably, be Vivian.

It was two hours before the backup car finally arrived to take me to the emergency room.

Three stitches across my forehead, along with severe scrapes down my arms.

After having his own arm bandaged, Julian stayed by my hospital bed for three days, playing the doting caretaker, bringing me water and medication.

On the morning of the fourth day, a phone call from Julian's mother came straight to my room.

Her hysterical sobs poured through the receiver, shouting that Vivian was having a complete mental breakdown in the adjacent wing, smashing furniture, while their three-year-old grandson was burning with a relentless fever. She demanded that Julian come fix it immediately.

Julian hung up, sat on the edge of the mattress in silence for a long time, and then stood up to pull on his overcoat.

I leaned against the pillows, watching him without asking a single question.

Julian walked to the door, his hand resting on the handle, before looking back over his shoulder. "Serena... let's just end this."

"I can never give you the title of my wife. Dragging this out will only destroy both of us. Stop waiting for me."

With that, he pushed the door open and walked away without looking back.

He chose his family, yet turned around and lectured me to let go, reducing our eight years of history to nothing more than a "mistake."

Expressionless, I reached down, pulled the IV needle from the back of my hand, and blocked Julian’s number on my phone.

After he left, I lay in that hospital bed until dusk, mentally auditing every milestone of the past eight years.

The day my studio opened, Julian skipped it, claiming an urgent meeting; that day was his son's first birthday party.

On the third anniversary of my mother's passing, I traveled alone to visit her grave; Julian said he was closing an out-of-town deal, but it was Vivian's father's birthday.

At the celebration dinner for my first seven-figure contract, Julian claimed he was entertaining clients; in reality, he spent the entire night at a private hospital tending to Vivian.

When I was bedridden with a 103-degree fever, Julian claimed he was swamped; that was the day he personally escorted his son to his first day of preschool.

On my twenty-sixth birthday, I reserved a table for two and waited for three hours; Julian posted a picture of his son’s tiny hand on an IV drip with the caption: Daddy is always here.

In eight years, at every single critical juncture, Julian was never with me. He was always with his wife.

The day I was discharged, I unblocked Julian’s number and sent him one final text: "Saturday is our eighth anniversary. I'll wait for you at the studio at 8:00 PM. If you show up, I'll give you one last chance. If you don't, I will vanish forever."

Julian replied within thirty seconds: I'll be there on time. I swear.

Saturday morning, I mopped the studio floor until it shone, opening the windows to let the breeze in.

I went downstairs, bought the craft stout he loved, and put it in the fridge. I cooked two of his favorite dishes and set them neatly on the dining table.

At 3:00 PM, Julian texted saying Vivian had an issue pop up, but he would be over the second it was handled.

At 6:00 PM, there was absolute silence from my phone. I dumped the cold dishes back into the skillet to reheat them.

At 8:00 PM, I sat alone at the table. The food went completely cold, and the foam on the poured beer faded to nothing.

At 10:00 PM, I dialed Julian’s number. An automated female voice informed me the caller was unavailable.

At 2:00 AM, Vivian used Julian’s phone to send me a photo. Attached was a text: The baby has a recurring fever. Julian is sleeping here tonight. He doesn't have time for you.

I read the text, placed the phone face down on the table, and didn't shed a single tear.

I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a manila envelope. Inside were the hospital records from my ectopic pregnancy surgery, along with a clean sheet of paper.

Written in black ink were two short sentences:

"Julian, the baby died a long time ago."

"Your claim that you were never a father was a lie. Your promise to make me your wife was a lie. Your claim that you chose me was a lie."

"Eight years. We're done."

I slid the envelope beneath the cold beer bottle.

Then, I scraped the two plates of food into the trash, grabbed my packed suitcase, turned off the lights, and locked the front door.

I slipped the key through the crack beneath the door.

Before the sun came up, I canceled the lease.

I took out my SIM card, snapped it, tossed it into a trash can, and left the city behind for good.