Isla's POV
I barely make it to the bathroom before my legs give out.
It's one of those fancy office building bathrooms with marble sinks and soft lighting that's supposed to make you look pretty. But the woman staring back at me in the mirror looks destroyed.
My hands grip the cold sink edge so hard my fingers hurt. I can't stop replaying his words in my head.
"I tried to stop loving you. I tried with... but no one compares to you."
He couldn't even say my name. Just "someone." Like I'm anyone. Like these three years meant nothing.
I stare at my reflection and for the first time, I really see what Ethan must see. Plain brown hair that I never do anything special with. Simple face with no dramatic features. Basic clothes because I never wanted to draw attention to myself.
Next to Vivienne's elegance, I'm invisible.
And maybe that's exactly what Ethan wanted. Someone invisible. Someone who wouldn't demand too much or make him feel things that scared him. Someone who would just... exist quietly in the space Vivienne left behind.
A sob tries to escape my throat but I swallow it down. I won't cry here. Not in this building where he works. Not where anyone might see me fall apart.
Three years. Three years of making myself smaller. Quieter. Easier.
I think about all the times I bit my tongue when I wanted to say something. All the times I laughed at jokes that weren't funny. All the times I agreed to things I didn't want because I was terrified that if I asked for too much, he'd realize he could do better.
And he did realize it. The moment Vivienne walked back into his life.
My phone buzzes and I jump like I've been electrocuted. With shaking hands, I pull it from my purse.
It's Ethan: "Working late tonight. Don't wait up."
A bitter laugh escapes my mouth. It sounds harsh and unfamiliar.
Working late. That's what he's calling it now. "Working late" with the woman he never stopped loving.
I want to text back. I want to type: "I know she's there. I know you bought her a bracelet. I know you're taking her to dinner. I know everything."
But my fingers won't move. Because saying it out loud—or even in text—makes it real. And I'm not ready for it to be real yet.
Instead, I type: "Okay. See you tomorrow."
The lie comes easily now. Maybe I learned it from him.
I splash cold water on my face and force myself to stand up straight. The woman in the mirror still looks broken, but at least she's standing.
I leave the bathroom and walk through the lobby like a ghost. Nobody looks at me. Nobody ever really looks at me.
The subway ride home is a blur. I sit in a crowded car surrounded by people, but I've never felt more alone in my life.
When I finally get back to our apartment, it feels wrong. Everything looks the same—his coffee mug on the counter from this morning, my wedding planning binder on the kitchen table, our photo from last Christmas on the shelf.
But it's all a lie. This whole life we built together is just a story he told himself while waiting for her to come back.
I drop my purse on the couch and pull out my laptop. My hands are steadier now, but my heart is racing.
I type into Google: "Vivienne Hart."
The search results fill my screen instantly. There are hundreds of photos. Vivienne at charity galas in Paris. Vivienne at fashion shows in Milan. Vivienne with her now ex-husband, a silver-haired man who looks old enough to be her father.
I click on a recent article from two weeks ago: "Vivienne Hart Returns to New York After High-Profile Divorce."
My eyes scan the words, each one feeling like a knife:
"After three years of marriage to French businessman Henri Dubois, 62, socialite Vivienne Hart, 29, has returned to her hometown of New York City following their divorce. Sources close to Hart say the split was amicable, with Hart receiving a substantial settlement. When asked about her plans, Hart smiled mysteriously and said, 'I'm here to reclaim what I should never have left behind.'"
Reclaim what she left behind.
Ethan.
She came back for him. She planned this. And he's letting her take him back like the last three years never happened. Like I never happened.
I keep scrolling, falling down a rabbit hole of photos and articles. There are old pictures of Ethan and Vivienne together from five years ago. They look perfect together—both beautiful, both powerful, both from the same wealthy world.
In one photo, they're at a gala. Ethan is looking at Vivienne the exact same way he looked at her today. Like she's the only person in the room. Like she's everything.
He never looked at me that way. Not once.
My phone buzzes again. It's Marcus: "Where are you? Are you okay? I'm worried."
I forgot I texted him for help. That feels like hours ago, but it's only been thirty minutes.
I start to type a response when I notice something on the screen. An article from earlier today—just posted two hours ago.
The headline makes my blood freeze: "Ethan Blackwell and Vivienne Hart Spotted Together: Is Romance Rekindling?"
There's a photo. Taken today. Outside a restaurant during lunch.
Ethan and Vivienne walking side by side. He's holding her elbow gently, protectively. She's laughing, looking up at him with pure joy.
And he's smiling. Really smiling. The kind of smile I've been trying to earn for three years.
The photo caption says: "An eyewitness reports Blackwell and Hart seemed 'very cozy' during their lunch date. Sources say Blackwell is currently engaged to fashion designer Isla Monroe, but the wedding may be in jeopardy."*
My wedding. They're writing about my wedding falling apart like it's entertainment.
I stare at that photo until my eyes burn. At the way he touches her. At the way she looks at him. At the life I thought was mine but was always meant to be hers.
My phone rings, making me jump. It's Ethan.
For a long moment, I just stare at his name on the screen. Part of me wants to answer. Wants to hear his voice and pretend everything is fine. Wants to go back to yesterday when I didn't know the truth.
But I can't unknow what I know now.
I let it ring until it goes to voicemail.
A few seconds later, a text: "Just calling to say goodnight. I love you."
I love you.
Three words that used to make my heart soar. Now they just feel empty. Like something he says out of habit, not because he means it.
I look back at the laptop screen. At the photo of him with Vivienne. At the way he touches her. At the smile that's never been mine.
Then I notice something I missed before. Something in the background of the photo that makes my heart stop completely.
Vivienne is wearing a bracelet. A diamond bracelet that catches the sunlight.
The bracelet he bought. The one I saw the receipt for.
She's already wearing it. Which means he already gave it to her. Which means this photo from "lunch today" was actually their gift exchange. Their reunion. Their beginning again.
And I'm still sitting here in our apartment like an idiot, waiting for a man who's already gone.
My phone buzzes one more time. But it's not Marcus or Ethan this time.
It's an unknown number. A text message with just three words and a photo attachment:
"Check your email."
The photo shows an envelope. Addressed to me. From a law office.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely open my email app. But when I do, there it is. An email marked URGENT.
The subject line makes the room spin: "Regarding the Postponement of Marriage License Application - Blackwell/Monroe."
I click it open.
The first line destroys me: "Dear Ms. Monroe, We regret to inform you that Mr. Ethan Blackwell has requested an indefinite postponement of your marriage license application, effective immediately."
He's canceling the wedding.
And I had to find out through a lawyer's email.