My Fiancée and Her Plus One
The lab blew, and my girlfriend—Beatrice Whitmore—didn't even glance my way. She bolted straight for Joseph, wrapping herself around him.
When the dust settled, she climbed into the ambulance with him. I was still on the ground, bleeding out, and she didn't spare me a look. Eighteen years raising him, and apparently, that was all the space her heart had left.
My coworkers dragged me to the hospital. ICU, barely breathing.
When I finally clawed my way out, throat raw, I called my advisor.
"Prof. Beaumont, I'm in. I'll go. Even if it means disappearing for five years, I don't care."
That was supposed to be my wedding month. Not anymore.