Chapter 4

For the past month, Ian probably thought he was the one giving me the cold shoulder.

He didn't text, didn't call, betting that I'd bow my head and cave the way I always had, crying and coming back to beg his forgiveness.

But he forgot that every time we fought in the past, I was the one who smoothed things over—not because I was wrong, but because I still cared.

And now I don't care anymore, so of course I won't bother with someone who means nothing to me.

Over these thirty days, I left the city where I'd lived for seven years, erased every trace of him, and kept busy coordinating with my family and the arranged marriage alliance partner to lock down a time to meet.

Bianca, on the other hand, was relentless. She switched between three burner accounts to message me—flaunting the limited-edition bag Ian bought her, mocking me that tattling had gotten me nowhere, that Ian couldn't bring himself to say a single harsh word to her.

I ignored all of it. Even blocking her felt like it would dirty my hands. Every day I treated her like nothing more than a clown, like I'd taken in some virtual pet.

Maybe I really don't love him anymore. Reading the messages she sent about Ian, I felt not the slightest ripple inside, as if I were watching two strangers put on a show of affection.

Until today, sitting in this coffee shop, waiting for that Marcus, Mr. Joyner.

I wore a black halter dress, the one Ian used to hate on me most, full makeup, eyes winged up, red lips like a blade.

Then, from behind me, came a familiar voice.

"Ian, this place is so popular. I even had to pull strings just to get a VIP card to get in."

"I heard the big boss behind it is the Joyner Group."

It was Bianca. She'd actually come to this city too.

Ian's voice, soft with indulgence, cut through the noisy crowd and pierced clearly into my ears.

"All right, as long as you're happy."

"I'll play along with you for this last month, but you're not allowed to cause trouble at the wedding. Natalie's been with me for seven years. I owe her a proper title, at least."

"Last time you insisted I change all the answers to yours during the groom's wedding-day pickup, and now she still won't speak to me—won't reply to my messages, won't take my calls."

"And I still have to figure out how to smooth things over with her."

There was a genuine note of frustration in his tone, as if the matter truly troubled him.

The fingers gripping my coffee cup went still, my knuckles white.

Bianca gave a cold snort, her cup clinking against the porcelain saucer.

"She's the one who married you and still sent me an invitation—she's deliberately provoking me!"

"Why are you being so difficult?"

Ian sighed, his voice full of helplessness and fondness.

"You're the childhood sweetheart I watched grow up. How could you not want to come to my wedding?"

"I just don't want to watch you marry someone else!"

Bianca's voice climbed, her tone resentful.

"Bianca." Ian's voice dropped low, weary, giving in.

My heart clenched. So the whole farce at the wedding had been intentional all along.

Everything I'd taken for accidents, for oversights, for proof that he didn't love me—all of it was just a game he'd played along with for her.

A faint sting went through my heart. I turned slightly, wanting to hear what else they had to say.

"Miss."

The waiter, carrying a tray, stopped right beside me, his voice bright and clear.

"This is the cake Mr. Joyner ordered for you. He called to say he'll arrive in twenty minutes—this is his apology for being late."

Behind me, the silence was instant.

After a long moment, a dry, flat voice finally came.

"Natalie, is that you?"

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, I picked up the iced Americano on the table, took an unhurried sip, and turned around.

Ian stood beside the neighboring booth, his suit crisp, still holding the strawberry cake he'd bought for Bianca.

On that face of his, always so composed, there was a rare flash of panic—as if he'd been caught red-handed.