Chapter 3

I unplugged the shredder as Stefani walked into the guest room with her phone.

The door didn't shut all the way, and her voice slipped through the gap.

"Wesley, don't write stuff like that. Nate might get the wrong idea."

The next day marked seven years since Stefani and I got together.

Before leaving that morning, she set a reservation card on the dining table.

"Seven tonight. Skyline Restaurant. I'll make it up to you with a real date. Let's forget everything that happened yesterday."

I stared at the card, and for a second, I almost believed her.

At seven, I put on her favorite white shirt and waited by the restaurant window.

At seven-thirty, my phone rang.

Chaos filled the background on Stefani's end—medical equipment, hurried footsteps.

"Wesley's having heart palpitations. I'm outside the ER. Go ahead and eat. Don't wait for me."

I tightened my grip on the fork. "Is it serious?"

She paused, then her voice went cold. "Are you asking because you're worried about him, or because you're mad I'm missing our anniversary again?"

I said nothing.

After we hung up, I packed the untouched food and went to the hospital.

The room door was cracked open.

Wesley was already awake, propped against the pillows. He looked way healthier than I expected.

Stefani sat beside him, holding a velvet box.

She opened it and took out a pair of ruby cuff links. The clasps were engraved with the initials WN.

Wesley Neilsen.

A month ago, she'd taken me to have them custom-made. She said the rubies looked good against my skin and planned to give them to me the day before our wedding.

She fastened them onto Wesley's cuffs, her voice soft.

"This color suits you better. Your wrists are so slim. They look better on you than anyone."

I stood outside the door, the takeout growing cold in my hands.

Mom came down the hall. The second she saw me, her face darkened.

"Wesley almost died, and you're dressed like that? All you care about is your anniversary. You're heartless."

Dad frowned. "Wesley's sick. Stop upsetting him."

Stefani stepped out too.

Her gaze dropped to my bare cuffs, as she'd only just remembered.

"About the cuff links... I'll get you another pair later."

When I didn't answer, she frowned.

"Nate, don't make a big deal out of it. They're just cuff links."

I looked at her.

For seven years, I'd told myself she was just softhearted. That she cared about someone who was sick but would never crush me to do it.

I was wrong.

I gave a small nod.

"No need."

Back at the apartment, I took the paintbrush from the drawer.

Beside it sat a thick scrapbook packed with seven years of memories—movie stubs, postcards, train tickets, and every love letter she'd written me.

I shoved it all into a black trash bag with every gift she'd ever given me and carried it downstairs.

The second I opened the dumpster, the sour stench hit me.

I didn't hesitate.

The bag landed with a dull thud.

My phone buzzed.

Phoebe had sent the final rehearsal schedule, along with an updated seating chart.

A new display had been added beside the reception area.

[Best Wishes from Wesley's Support Group]

Phone in hand, I thought of the stack of invitations Wesley had been holding.

He was bringing his guests to my wedding.

The next day, I went to the hotel.

Phoebe was directing workers as they set up the new display.

It was covered in photos and messages from Wesley's support group. At the center was the shot of him in the white tux, glancing back over his shoulder.

When Phoebe saw me, she looked embarrassed.

"Mr. Neilsen, Ms. Lundberg said it was a surprise display. She added it last night."

I pointed at the photo.

"Where's the reception portrait?"