Chapter 3

That night, I went alone to a dinner with a few of Julian's mutual friends.

I asked, offhand, "Do you guys know Camille Sinclair?"

The table went quiet. Nobody answered.

Watching their faces, it hit me — everyone already knew he had a fiancée.

Someone, oblivious to the tension, filled the silence. "Sure, Julian's fiancée."

Another friend chimed in. "He told us you were his girlfriend, even with his family pushing this arrangement on him — we all thought that was pretty sweet, honestly."

"Sweet?"

"His family lined up a fiancée who checks every box, and he's still spending time on you? That takes something."

My hands curled into fists. A cold feeling spread through me.

"He has a fiancée, and he still let me be his girlfriend. That's called lying."

Someone let out a scoffing laugh. "Camille doesn't even seem to mind you're around. What is there for you to fight for?"

"Vera, you have to understand — she came first, and you came after. To put it bluntly, you're more like the—"

The sentence cut off, and the table went silent.

But I could still see it in their eyes — that flicker of pity mixed with the thrill of watching a scene unfold.

"Vera, don't overthink it."

I couldn't make out anything else that was said. By the time I came back to myself, I was already outside the diner.

The next day was the anniversary of my mother's death, so I took the day off. I bought a bouquet of calla lilies — her favorite when she was alive — and went to the cemetery.

When I got there, a bouquet was already sitting in front of the headstone. Calla lilies too, still fresh, the dew not even dried. A card was tucked into the flowers. I opened it and found it had been written by Camille.

"Ma'am, I'm Julian's fiancée. I've heard you hated homewreckers more than anything. Don't worry — I'll make sure Vera stays on the right path from now on."

My mother had hated homewreckers more than anything, her whole life. The year my father took up with another woman, she'd held me in the kitchen and cried through the entire night. The next morning, she wiped her eyes and said only one thing to me, "Vera, a person needs to have some backbone."

She never forgave my father, not even on her deathbed.

And now someone was standing at her grave, using her dying wish to humiliate her own daughter.

"Mom, I'm not the other woman. They lied to me for three years."

That night, I told Julian everything and asked, "How did she even know where my mother's grave is?"

"I happened to be busy that day, so she went and paid her respects for me."

"You sent her to my mother's grave? As what, exactly?"

Something weary flickered across his face. "I didn't think it through."

"Julian, you let another woman visit my mother's grave?"

"She told my mother she's your fiancée. What do you think that makes my mom think?"

He sighed and rubbed his temple with one hand — a gesture I'd seen a hundred times, always right before he lost patience with me.

"Vera, it's always about her with you. Can we just not talk about her for once?"

His voice had gone flat and heavy, like he was already sick of the whole conversation.

I looked at him and, for the first time, he felt like a stranger.

My hands curled into fists, and my voice came out hoarse. "I'm giving you one month. That's the last of it. Either you go public with our relationship, or I'm gone."

He caught sight of my reddened eyes, went still for a second, then nodded. "Okay."

For that whole month, he acted like we'd fallen right back into the honeymoon phase. He'd even hand me his phone on his own and say, "Look — nothing on here."

Then one day, I got off work early and went to meet him at his office so we could get dinner together. His car was parked out front. Camille was just stepping out of the passenger seat. He reached over and wiped a tear from her cheek, then pulled her gently into his arms.

I stood across the street and watched him rest his hand on her back, patting it softly, twice.

That night, he came home with flowers.

"Nothing much going on at work today, so I came to see you early."

I didn't take them.

"I went by your office this afternoon. I saw you hugging Camille."

"She was upset. I was just comforting her."

"Comforting her required hugging her?"

"Vera, I'm working on sorting things out between us."

"You've been sorting it out for three years. And what do we have to show for it?"

The second I said it, he flung the flowers to the ground.

"Do you have to make a scene every time? You think I'm not exhausted? I run back and forth between you two every single day, managing everyone. You think this is easy for me?"

"So I'm just supposed to wait?"

"You want an answer right now, is that it?"

I nodded.

His eyes darkened, his chest rising and falling. "Fine. I'll tell you right now. I can't give you one."

The room went suddenly silent. Even he looked stunned by his own words.

"Vera, that's not what I meant—"

That night, I moved into the guest room. He didn't stop me.

Lying there, I thought back to the first time I'd gone home with him, three years ago. Back then, I'd believed that if I just waited long enough, my turn would eventually come.

Now I understood — some lines don't run on a first-come, first-served basis.

And I was never even on the list to begin with.