"I got a little worked up just now. I said some things I shouldn't have. Maud, I'm sorry."
"How about this—I'll return the bracelet tomorrow, but you have to come to the wedding and be Elise's bridesmaid."
"Think about it. We were supposed to get married, and then I suddenly went and got my marriage license with Elise instead. That doesn't look good for a young woman's reputation."
"If you show up tomorrow as the bridesmaid, nobody will think Elise came between us. And if anyone asks about what happened with us, just cover for me... Tell them you cheated, that you fell for someone else, that you'd been wanting to break things off for a while. Just don't drag Elise into it."
I stared at his messages, and a laugh escaped me. The sheer absurdity of it.
But the laughter didn't last. Tears rolled down and soaked into the hem of my coat.
The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror and silently handed me a tissue.
I thanked him quietly, pushed open the car door, and dragged the suitcase behind me as I stormed upstairs.
I went straight to Elise's front door and pounded on it with everything I had.
The door rattled like thunder under my fists.
Hurried footsteps echoed from inside, and the door swung open.
"Who the hell—? It's the middle of the night!"
Benjamin stood there in a pink apron, flour dusted across his forehead.
My eyes burned red in an instant.
Benjamin and I had been together for ten years.
I'd watched him go from a penniless student to a respected professor.
The deepest scar he carried was from college, when he'd worked part-time as a kitchen hand at a restaurant to put himself through school. A group of rich kids who resented him had jumped him, pinned him to the ground, and poured leftover food over his head.
"Pathetic little cook. You think you can steal another man's girl?"
After that, he despised the kitchen. Loathed everything about cooking.
Even when I brought him home to meet my mother after our engagement—my mother, who was already gravely ill—all I asked was for him to carry the dishes out from the kitchen. He went cold, slammed the door, and left.
My dying mother wept for me.
Even then, I forced a smile and made excuses for him.
After that, I treated him even more carefully, walking on eggshells around his wounds.
I'd never cooked a day in my life, but I burned and blistered my hands learning, just so he'd never have to.