My Dead Fiancée Returned With Another Man

A past life?

The claim was absurd.

Three years of acquaintanceship, four years of love, and another three years endured in despair. That was ten years. Iris Ford thought she could erase it all with a few careless words.

"Graham..."

Violet Bardot stepped in front of me, avoiding my eyes. "Can we talk outside? There are too many people here. Please don't make a scene."

I was making a scene? I stared at Violet, the woman who had watched me torture myself like a lunatic for three years while offering hollow sympathy and urging me to let go.

"Violet," my voice came out hoarse, "when did you find out she was still alive?"

Violet went rigid.

"Was it a year ago? Two years ago? Or did you know from the very beginning?"

Violet bit her lip and lowered her voice. "Iris was badly injured back then. Jack carried her down the mountain. When she woke up, she didn't remember anyone.

"The doctors said forcing her to recover her memories could kill her. And she was living peacefully in that mountain village. She was happy."

"So, for the sake of her peace and happiness, I deserved to rot in hell. Is that it?" I cut her off quietly.

Violet had no answer.

Hearing this, Iris Ford's brow furrowed slightly. "Mr. Stevens."

Her voice still carried that clear, bright quality I remembered, but the words cut deep. "I don't know what we were to each other before, but Violet's right. I'm happy now."

She gripped Jack Glenwood's hand, their fingers laced together. "Jack saved my life. He's my partner now. You need to move on, Mr. Stevens."

She made it sound simple.

Three years ago, Iris said she was going to the northern mountains for artistic inspiration. That was one month before our wedding.

She had told me, "Graham, once I finish this Mountain Spirit series, I'll come back and marry you."

I waited and waited, only to receive news of a blizzard sealing the mountain. The search team eventually returned with nothing but a torn art portfolio.

I collapsed three times at her memorial service, clutching that portfolio. To find her remains, I sold the apartment for our life after wedding and hired a private search team that camped at the mountain base for six full months.

I developed severe depression and anxiety. The scars on my wrist piled up, one over another.

I smiled bitterly, my eyes burning. "You're right. People do need to move forward."

I straightened my spine, trying to salvage what dignity I had left. "So, I'm leaving you in the past where you belong."

I turned to leave. As I passed the largest painting on display, I stopped.

The title read Rebirth. It showed the silhouette of a young man running toward sunlight. That was Jack Glenwood.

But in the bottom right corner, there was a small, unremarkable cluster of white flowers.

Iris once told me I was the only bloom in her barren life. Now I had become roadside decoration, trampled without a second thought.