Chapter 3

Evelyn Roman POV:

The moment the words "he ran off" left my lips, a commotion erupted from the Howard family's side of the aisle. Blake' s father, a man with a pre-existing heart condition, clutched his chest and gasped, his face turning an alarming shade of gray.

The chaos that followed was a blessing. It was a smokescreen. As Eleanor Howard shrieked and paramedics were called for the second time in less than thirty minutes, the guests, smelling scandal and drama, began to disperse. The wedding I had spent a year planning dissolved into a cacophony of sirens and morbid whispers.

I ended up at the hospital. Not for me, but for Blake' s father. I sat in the cold, sterile waiting room while my mother handled the logistics of cancelling the most expensive party I would never have. A nurse cleaned the angry red marks on my arm where Eleanor had grabbed me, her grip surprisingly strong.

While waiting for news, I took out my phone. My own phone. And with trembling fingers, I made an appointment. An appointment for the following morning. The earliest one they had. An appointment to undo the one thing that still tied me to Blake Howard.

My mother returned and saw the confirmation email on my screen. Her face crumpled. "Oh, Evie. No. Don' t do this. Don' t make a decision this big when you' re so upset."

"I' m not upset, Mom," I said, and the terrifying thing was, it was true. The raw, screaming grief had been replaced by a chilling clarity. "I' m calm."

"It' s his baby too, Evelyn. You two love each other. Whatever this fight was, you can work it out. You' ve been together for seven years!" she pleaded, her eyes filling with tears. She didn' t understand. She couldn' t. She and my father had a love story that was simple and true. Blake and I... I had thought we did too.

I placed a hand over my still-flat stomach. "A baby deserves a father who chooses him. Who chooses his mother," I said, my voice bitter. "Blake made his choice today. In front of two hundred people. This baby... this baby deserves better than a man who would leave its mother at the altar for an intern."

Just then, my phone rang. A number I didn't recognize. But I knew who it was. I had a feeling he'd be using a borrowed phone.

I answered.

"Evelyn? Thank God. My phone died." It was Blake. He sounded breathless, annoyed, as if he' d been mildly inconvenienced. "Is everything okay there? I heard about my dad. I' m on my way. Don' t worry, I can handle my mom. We can still fix this."

Fix this. As if our seven-year relationship was a leaky faucet.

I was so stunned by his audacity I almost couldn' t speak. He' d been gone for over an hour. An hour where I had been publicly humiliated, where his father had a medical emergency, where my world had crumbled. And his first question wasn't about me.

The taste of blood filled my mouth. I hadn't realized I' d bitten the inside of my cheek.

"Where were you, Blake?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.

There was a pause. A sigh. "Evelyn, I told you, Cali has a heart condition. She was disoriented. I had to make sure she got home okay."

"You had to make sure," I repeated, the words like ash on my tongue. "You, specifically, had to drive her home while your bride was left standing at the altar?"

"Don' t be like this," he snapped, his patience already wearing thin. "It was a medical emergency. Don' t drag her into this. This is about us."

Don' t drag her into this.

The pain that lanced through my chest was so sharp, so brutal, it felt physical. He was protecting her. Even now, he was protecting her from me.

"There is no 'us' anymore, Blake," I said, my voice cracking on his name. "I told you. If you walked away, we were over."

I hung up, my hand shaking so hard I almost dropped the phone. The tears I had been holding back finally came, hot and furious.

As I was wiping them away, a notification popped up on my screen. A friend request on a social media app I rarely used. From Cali Beard. In my grief-stricken haze, my thumb slipped and I accidentally accepted.

Immediately, a message appeared. A photo. It was a picture of her hand, perfectly manicured, resting on the sleeve of a man' s suit. Blake' s suit. I recognized the custom cufflinks I had given him for our fifth anniversary. In the background, out of focus, was the interior of his car.

A second later, the photo was deleted. A new message followed.

OMG I am SO SO sorry! That was meant for my best friend! My hand must have slipped! I am so mortified!

My heart turned to stone. It was a declaration of war.

My fingers moved on their own, navigating to her public profile. It was a curated gallery of a perfect life. And there, posted just an hour ago, was a picture of her looking pale and fragile, tucked into a plush sofa with a cup of tea. The caption read: Feeling a bit weak, but so grateful to have someone looking after me. Some people are just angels on earth.

The sofa was in Blake' s apartment. The one we shared. The one decorated with our wedding gifts.

And underneath, a comment from one of her friends: Is that the famous ginger-lemon tea he makes? You lucky girl!

My breath hitched. Blake didn' t cook. He couldn' t even make toast without burning it. I was the one who made him ginger-lemon tea when he was sick. I taught him how. He had never, in seven years, made it for me.

The screen blurred. The war was already over. I had lost before I even knew I was fighting.