Chapter 1

Tags: Wrong Name on Invitations, Pick-Me Coworker, Female Lead Awakening, Flash Marriage, Regretful Ex

While writing our wedding invitations, Wesley wrote the wrong name for the ninth time.

My name is Clara. He wrote Lauren.

Lauren was the new intern on his team.

"The girl’s handwriting is terrible, so she’s always asking me to sign things for her. Force of habit."

He was always like this.

Whenever he bought me a gift, it was always a baby-pink scarf. When we went out to eat, he’d order a huge seafood platter. And whenever he drove me home, he’d drop me off in front of her apartment complex instead of mine.

He was always getting things wrong.

My favorite color was black. And I was deadly allergic to shellfish.

I used to ask him, "We’ve been together for so long. Do you really not remember what I like?"

And he’d always snap back, "Then tell me! If you don't say anything, how am I supposed to know?"

Except I had told him. Thousands of times.

Just like this tenth invitation in front of him, where he was about to write her name all over again.

In that quiet second, it hit me.

When a man doesn't love you, nothing you say matters.

I took a slow, deep breath and pulled the pen straight out of his hand.

"Since you can't get the name right, don't write it."

"And we don't need to have this wedding, either."

"What kind of nonsense is that?"

Wesley reached out to take the pen back, but my grip didn't budge.

He sighed, staring at me like I was being unreasonable.

"Isn't this the wedding you begged for? Did you already forget who practically dragged me into proposing?"

"Besides, you're the one who insisted on hand-writing every single invite."

"We could’ve just had them printed."

"I'm sitting here doing it, aren't I? What more do you want from me?"

What more did I want?

My vision went dark for a second. My balance wavered.

Back when we first started dating, I told him about my family tradition. The groom had to handwrite every wedding invitation with a fountain pen. It was a symbol of pure devotion. Only couples who put their heart into it would find true happiness.

Young Wesley had listened. Back then, he bought calligraphy pads and secretly practiced late into the night. He kept it up for five whole years.

Now, he had the most beautiful penmanship. But he didn't want to write my name with it.

I couldn't stop the words from spilling out. "You promised you would write them yourself."

Wesley let out a dry laugh.

"I was young back then. Dumb, too. I took every little romantic idea seriously."

"We're adults now. There's no point in clinging to that stuff."

Was the tradition pointless? Or was I?

A chill spread through my bones.

"Then there's no point in the wedding, either."

"Stop talking nonsense," Wesley said again.

He stood up and reached over to pat my head, but I leaned away from his touch.

"Clara, we've been together for thirteen years. Everyone in our circle knows that."

"If you don't marry me, who else are you going to marry?"

"Look at yourself. You're thirty-five. In medical terms, that's advanced maternal age. If you leave me, your value on the dating market is basically zero."

His smile was soft, but his words were razor-sharp.

"You need to face reality. A man's youth and a woman's youth don't carry the same price tag."

He stopped there.

He didn't need to finish. I knew the rest of the sentence.

He thought a thirty-five-year-old man was a prime bachelor with an endless line of young girls waiting for him. But a thirty-five-year-old woman was considered expired goods that nobody wanted.

I stared at him, sick to my stomach.

A cold wave of disgust washed over me.

His face hadn't changed much in thirteen years, but on the inside, he was completely rotten.

And I had only just realized it.

My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe.

Suddenly, my mind flashed back to thirteen years ago.

A twenty-two-year-old Wesley, kneeling under a sky full of stars, making a vow.

"Clara, I'm serious about you."

"I don't date just to mess around. I date to marry."

"Before we turn thirty-five, I swear I'll buy us a home."

"A bright, sunlit place where we can raise our sweet little baby together."

From that night on, he never touched a video game again.

In college, he spent every waking hour studying and practicing his penmanship. Once he graduated, he worked three jobs around the clock.

He would leave the apartment at four in the morning and stumble back at midnight.

His discipline broke my heart.

I used to tell him, "It doesn't have to be before thirty-five. Take it easy."

But he looked me in the eye with absolute certainty. "I don't want you to wait that long."

His parents were working-class folks from a small town. I knew how brutal it was to buy property in a major city without any family support.

Yet against all odds, he pulled it off.

Because he worked so hard, I didn't want him to carry the burden alone anymore. On New Year's Day, right when we both turned thirty-five, I set up a surprise proposal in our new living room. Under the fairy lights, he smiled and let me slide the ring onto his finger.

And today, there were only two weeks left before our thirty-fifth year ended.

We had the house. We had the car. Yet he couldn't even write my name on our invitations.

And somehow, the entire wedding had been rewritten into a favor he was granting me because I had "begged" for it.

Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.

I couldn't picture a future with this man anymore.

"Wesley, let's break up."

"What did you say?"

"I said, we—"

The words died in my throat the moment I opened my eyes.

Wesley was already holding his phone to his ear, laughing into the receiver.

"I told you to practice your handwriting, but you're always cutting corners."

"Fine, fine. Stay there. I'll drive over and sign the paperwork for you."

He grabbed his suit jacket off the chair and walked straight toward the front door.

He left me standing there, drowning in my own grief, without so much as a goodbye.

I looked down at the bright red envelopes scattered across the hardwood floor. It was all a sick joke.

Slowly, I knelt down. I picked up an invitation with *Lauren & Wesley* inked across the front, and ripped it in half.

Then another. Ripped.

One after another, until even the blank cards were reduced to torn scraps.

As if tearing paper could tear apart thirteen years of history.

In the empty silence of the room, I buried my face in my knees.

A whisper escaped my lips, meant only for myself.

"Clara Vance, you really are a joke."

A long time passed before I finally picked up my phone with trembling hands and sent a text.

[Mom, I'm done waiting for him.]

[The man you mentioned... I'll marry him.]