Chapter 3

I don't even remember how I walked away from those women.

All I remember was the blinding glare of the afternoon sun burning my eyes as I turned my back.

I retreated into my car, slammed the door, and gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned bone-white.

It felt like a concrete slab had slammed into my chest, choking every breath out of me.

I wanted to scream, to cry, but my eyes were bone-dry. Not a single tear would fall.

I sat frozen for five minutes—maybe ten.

Those words echoed violently inside my skull: *Wedding house. Engagement party. Shotgun wedding.*

I didn't break down, and I didn't throw a tantrum.

Beyond peak rage and betrayal lies absolute, icy clarity.

Storm in and yell at him?

Slap that woman across the face?

That would let him off way too easy.

I was going to make him pay the most agonizing price imaginable for what he did.

Reaching into my purse, I popped in a wireless earbud.

Then, I pulled up my phone's voice recorder app, clasped the phone in my right hand, screen facing my palm.

Deep breath. Another deep breath.

I fixed my face into an expression of casual, pleasant surprise, like a colleague dropping in by pure coincidence.

Then, I pushed open the car door and walked toward the gate with steady, measured strides.

The courtyard gate was unlocked; a light push swung it open.

The yard was neatly swept, lined with potted roses along the brick wall.

A man sat on a low stool with his back turned to me, carefully peeling a tangerine.

Beside him sat a young woman in a loose maternity dress, her baby bump clearly visible.

In her arms rested a toddler, barely a year old.

That man was Logan.

He peeled a tangerine slice, delicately stripped away the white fibers, and fed it to the woman.

She parted her lips with a sweet smile, eating it with pure contentment.

Then, she looked down, cooing at the baby boy on her lap.

The child suddenly stretched out his tiny hand toward Logan and babied out:

"Daddy."

That single word exploded like a bomb over my head.

Whatever composure I was clinging to nearly shattered on the spot.

It wasn't just an engagement. It wasn't just a pregnancy. He already had an older child!

For five whole years, what kind of pathetic, delusional fool had I been playing in his web of lies?

Perhaps I had stood there in silence for too long; Logan seemed to sense something.

He slowly turned around.

The second his eyes landed on me, every ounce of warmth on his face instantly petrified.

His pupils shrank to pinpricks, raw panic flashing through his eyes.

Yet that terror lasted only a fraction of a second before he violently buried it.

He stood up, brushed the citrus peel off his hands, and flashed a cold, dismissive smirk I had never seen before.

He looked at me as if I were nothing more than an unwelcome nuisance.

The woman, Phoebe, sensed the hostility. She scrambled up with the baby clutched tight, staring at me with sharp distrust.

"What are you doing here?"

Logan spoke, his tone freezing and distant, as if I were a complete stranger off the street.