Chapter Four

In the car, I stare out the window at the bustling city — people laughing, horns blaring, life moving on as if mine hadn’t just fallen apart.

In the passenger seat beside Noah, I clutch my wedding dress tightly, its soft fabric a painful reminder of everything I lost.

I’m silently grateful for his quiet. He hasn’t said a word since we left the house, and I don’t think I could handle it if he did.

When the car finally rolls to a stop in front of my apartment building, I look up for the first time. His bright blue eyes are already on me.

He looks like he wants to say something but stops himself. Instead, he picks up my phone from my lap, calls his own number, and hands it back to me.

I blink at him, startled by the audacity. Before I can even open my mouth to argue, I hear him chuckle — low and brief.

“That’s the look you give when you’re about to say something reckless,” he says, almost amused.

I stare at him, confused, but before I can reply, his face returns to its usual unreadable calm — that cold mask I can never seem to look past.

I nod silently and step out of the car.

The weight of reality crashes down on me again. The moment I walk into my apartment, the air feels heavy — too familiar, too painful. Every corner holds a memory I wish I could forget. The laughter, the planning, the dreams.

All of it—gone.

I walk straight to my bedroom, careful not to look too long at anything. I set my wedding dress neatly on the bed. Once a symbol of forever… now, just fabric and heartbreak.

I step into the shower, letting the cold water run over me. Maybe it could wash away the pain pressing against my chest, maybe it could help me breathe again — even for a moment. But when I step out, wrapped in a towel and dripping onto the cold tiles, the hollow ache is still there, heavier than before.

I sit at my dresser — the one Dave helped me assemble — and stare at my reflection.

The last time I sat here, I was smiling, a glowing bride excited for forever. Now, the woman staring back at me looks like a stranger.

My red hair hangs in tangled waves, my eyes are sunken and tired, and my lips no longer remember what a smile feels like.

My gaze drops to the picture frame resting on the desk — a photo of Dave, Mina, and me on our law school graduation day. We looked so happy, so sure of each other.

A sharp twist runs through my chest. For a fleeting moment, I almost let myself believe there’s a reason behind it all — that the people I loved most didn’t just stab me in the back and call it love.

I pull out a red suit skirt — custom-made, the exact one Kendall Jenner wore in Paris. The bold colour feels like armour. I tie my hair into a sleek bun, slip on my Louis Vuitton red-bottom heels, and finish the look with dark sunglasses.

One last glance at the picture on my dresser — the smiling faces of people who once felt like home — and I straighten my shoulders. No more tears.

By the time I step out of my apartment, my confidence is stitched together as tightly as my outfit. But it falters when I see the familiar black car still parked outside. Noah.

I walk toward it, the sharp click of my heels echoing against the pavement. He’s leaning casually against the car, tall and effortlessly composed, looking like he belongs on the cover of Forbes — or a runway.

The sound of my heels draws his attention, and when his eyes meet mine, there’s something in them that flickers — brief, unreadable, gone too quickly.

He straightens as I approach, and I have to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. At 6’1 in heels, I rarely have to look up to anyone, and the unfamiliarity of it both irritates and intrigues me.

I raise an eyebrow, confused. “You’re still here?”

His expression doesn’t change. “Like I said earlier,” he replies, voice smooth but firm, “I’m driving you.”

“Yes, and you did. Thank you,” I said, already turning to leave when his hand wrapped around my arm — firm, commanding.

My breath caught as he looked me dead in the eye, his voice low and certain.

“Get in. I said I’m driving.”

It would be a lie to say I wasn’t taken aback by his audacity. A part of me wanted to challenge him, to remind him I wasn’t someone who took orders. But something in his tone — steady, unyielding — silenced the protest on my lips.

Against all logic, I found myself walking around the car, slipping into the seat as he held the door open for me.