Six Years After Ditching My Bride

At the cemetery entrance, someone grabbed my wrist again.

Rachel Miller stood in front of me, her eyes bloodshot. "Joseph, we need to talk."

"There's nothing for us to talk about," I said indifferently and yanked my hand free.

Her fingers curled slightly in midair before eventually falling limp at her side.

"Joseph Caldwell, how dare you show your face here again?"

Stella Sullivan, Rachel's best friend, strode forward, barely containing her anger.

"Don't you think you've hurt Rachel enough already? Did you hear she's getting engaged to Norman and decide to come back and ruin things? Please, I'm begging you. Just leave her alone."

I had no intention of getting dragged into this. I turned to leave. But Stella lost control and stepped in front of me. She shoved me hard, sending me crashing to the ground.

A sharp pain shot through my elbow and knee.

Almost instantly, Rachel instinctively stepped forward, reaching out to help me up. Her brows knitted together, and a flicker of concern crossed her eyes.

"Don't touch me." I pushed her hand away and got up, ignoring how disheveled I looked.

Her outstretched hand froze in midair, and her face turned as pale as a sheet.

"Rachel…" A gentle voice interrupted us at just the right moment.

I looked up. Norman Holt was approaching from beside a parked car.

The moment he appeared, Rachel took a step back, putting some distance between us. Then, she walked over to him and took his hand.

"It's freezing outside. You're not in good health. Why did you come outside?" she said as she slipped his hand into her pocket.

Norman wrapped an arm around her. "You worry about me too much. Going out for a walk now and then is good for my health. Besides, I missed you. I wanted to spend some time with you."

He lifted his gaze and looked at me. "Joseph, you finally came back."

I didn't respond. Instead, I raised my hand to hail a cab.

As I opened the car door, I heard Rachel call softly from behind me, "Joseph!"

I didn't look back.

The car drove off. In the rearview mirror, I saw her standing where she was, watching me with a complicated expression.

Not long after I got in, the driver spoke excitedly. "Sir, was that Rachel Miller from Baytona back there? Her love story with her fiancé is famous around town. People say she nearly fell apart when her ex-fiancé left her a few years ago… Thankfully, she met the man she's with now."

He sighed to himself. "I wonder if the man who ran away from her regrets it now."

"He doesn't," I said quietly, watching the streets blur past the window.

"Don't be so sure. You're not him."

I lowered my gaze and gently traced the faint mark the ring had left on my ring finger. I felt perfectly calm.

He wouldn't regret it.

…

I stared down at the faint white ring mark on my finger. Memories came flooding back.

Everyone said Rachel was the pride of Baytona, born into a world of privilege.

What they didn't know was that one winter day when we were eight years old, I had seen her curled up beside a frozen trash can. I stood in the alleyway, my feet rooted to the spot.

The next second, I rushed over and grabbed her icy wrist. I brought her home, leaving her no chance to protest.

That night, I gave her every last meatball on my plate. She kept her head lowered, not saying a word. Only the movement of her throat as she swallowed betrayed how miserable she felt.

I later learned that her parents had an arranged marriage for the sake of their business. There had never been any love between them.

When Rachel was three years old, she had been sent to live with her father. But she might as well have been invisible. Even her nanny dared to treat her poorly.

From that day on, I always seemed to find an excuse to pass by that alley.

She wasn't much of a talker, but she would quietly follow behind me.

Before long, we grew closer.