She crouched beside me, pulling a cream-colored envelope from her purse. She tossed it onto my chest.
"My wedding is in three days. Come have a drink on us." She smirked, her eyes glinting with malice. "Haven't you always wanted to see me in a bridal gown? Come watch. Take a good look at how happy Samuel and I are."
Any lingering affection I held for Delia Pruitt died in that moment.
In a few heartbeats, my world shifted on its axis. Delia had dropped her mask completely, using a wedding invitation to twist the knife. The audacity was almost impressive—but instead of pain, cold numbness settled over me.
My expression hardened.
"Fine," I said, voice flat. "I'll be there."
I snatched the invitation and turned on my heel without looking back. The muffled sounds of Delia and Samuel cursing me trailed behind like garbage in the wind.
I exited the villa complex, the iron gates clanging shut behind me. A sleek sedan was already waiting at the curb. The window rolled down, and a slender finger lowered a pair of oversized sunglasses.
"Well, look at you," my sister teased, eyes dancing. "The freshly divorced man. Quite the look."
She laughed—bright, melodic, clashing with my foul mood.
"If Harbor City finds out the Ashford heir was dumped by a gold digger—and that he begged her to stay—the family reputation would be in tatters. You know that, right?"
I shot her a glare. I wanted to snap back, but the fight had drained out of me.
My marriage to Delia hadn't been a grand affair. We'd simply signed papers and celebrated quietly. She always claimed a simple life was all she wanted, that our modest union was her dream wedding. I never expected she'd use her "real" wedding to publicly humiliate me.
"So," my sister asked, tone sharpening, "are you really attending that wretched pair's wedding in three days?"
"They sent a sincere invitation." A chill laced my words. "It would be rude not to show them proper courtesy."
"Delia is truly an idiot." She shook her head. "She had the chance to be matriarch of the Ashford family, yet threw it away for a small-time real estate boss."
My sister was a chatterbox, her nagging constant as a scripture chant.
"Enough," I cut in, opening the car door. "Let's go home."
She immediately switched into theatrical servant mode. "Welcome home, Young Master! Please, enter your carriage."
Three years.
Three long years since I'd set foot in my true home.