And a second later, Jonah's text followed, [When we get married, just rent a dress from the shop. No need to waste money.]
I stared at the message. Six years together and for the first time, I realized—I never truly knew Jonah.
My gaze flicked to the location tracker in our couple's app. He was still at the City Hall.
I thought it would hurt. But I felt nothing at all.
With a quiet exhale, I disabled our shared location.
Just then, the arrival of Jonah's assistant, Zane, broke the silence. Two bodyguards trailed behind him.
Zane, who had once greeted me with warmth and respect, now looked at me with undisguised contempt. His tone remained polite, but it carried a distant coldness.
"Miss Arabelle, as long as you refrain from causing any problems, we won't interfere with where you go."
A warning.
I couldn't be bothered with fair-weather lackeys. Without another word, I drove straight to my office and resigned from my job.
But when I finally returned home, something else was waiting for me.
At the parking garage, my car slowed as the automatic gate failed to lift. I rolled down my window. The security guard checked the system, his brows furrowing.
"Apologies, Miss. Your usual parking spot is now registered to another car."
I scanned the code again, but the parking garage gate remained stubbornly closed. Through the barrier, I saw a sleek, unfamiliar car parked in my designated spot.
Recognition struck me instantly. It was the car Jonah had promised to give me two months ago.
But now, the person stepping out of it wasn't me. It was Nadia.
She saw me immediately, her gaze flickering in my direction. But instead of acknowledging my presence, she put on a deliberate act—lifting a bright red marriage certificate and waving it in front of Jonah.
"Jonah," she said, "as soon as the City Hall opens tomorrow, I'll go with you to apply for a divorce. That way, I won't delay your wedding with Arabelle."
The only thing redder than the marriage certificate was Nadia's teary eyes.
Jonah reached out, rubbing her head with an affectionate indulgence. His voice was low, coaxing.
"Silly girl," he murmured. "Just wait a little longer. Arabelle won't marry anyone but me. She'd wait years if she had to."
They turned away, walking hand in hand toward our—no, their—home. I stood still, watching their retreating figures, but I felt no pain. Just a quiet, simmering exhaustion.