His Regret, Her Sudden Marriage

For seven years, I hid my identity as a wealthy heiress to be with my boyfriend, Ewing. I followed him across the country and made myself small so he could feel big.

On Thanksgiving, he ditched our celebration for his first love, Bree, who supposedly had a "burst pipe."

Later, she posted an intimate selfie with him, calling him her "hero."

Then she sent me a video of him at a bar, laughing with his friends.

"She's just being dramatic," he slurred, smirking at the camera. "A new necklace and she'll forget all about it. She's easy."

Easy. Seven years of my life, my love, my sacrifice-all reduced to that one word. I realized I was never his partner. I was just a placeholder.

I didn't cry. I packed my bags, booked a one-way flight to New York, and sent him one final text before blocking his number.

"Don't bother coming home. I'm getting married."

Chapter 1

Haven Holden POV:

On Thanksgiving, after seven years together, my boyfriend, Ewing Hurley, ditched our planned celebration for his first love, Bree Campbell, who needed help with a "burst pipe."

The scent of roasted turkey, rich with rosemary and thyme, filled our small Denver apartment. It was supposed to be a warm, comforting smell, the kind that wraps around you like a hug. But today, it felt cloying, heavy with disappointment. I' d spent all morning preparing a feast for two: the turkey, a creamy green bean casserole just the way Ewing liked it, mashed potatoes whipped until they were fluffy clouds, and a pumpkin pie cooling on the counter, its spicy-sweet aroma a ghost of the celebration we were supposed to have.

Ewing was supposed to be here an hour ago.

I picked up my phone for the tenth time, my thumb hovering over his contact. No new messages. My last text, a simple "Everything okay?" sent forty-five minutes ago, remained unanswered. A familiar, cold knot tightened in my stomach. This wasn' t the first time. It wasn' t even the fifth. Whenever Bree Campbell called, Ewing ran.

I scrolled absently through my social media feed, a mindless habit to numb the growing unease. And then I saw it. A new post from Bree.

My breath caught in my throat.

The picture was a selfie, taken in a steamy bathroom mirror. Bree was laughing, her head tilted just so, a smudge of what looked like grease on her cheek. Behind her, out of focus but unmistakable, was Ewing. He was on his knees, working on the pipes under her sink, his back to the camera. The angle was suggestive, intimate. He was wearing the gray henley I bought him for his birthday last month.

Her caption was the final twist of the knife. "My hero! Came to rescue me from a Thanksgiving flood. Some people just get it. #BurstPipe #ThanksgivingKnight #BetterThanTurkey"

My hero.

The casual intimacy of the photo, the proprietary way she claimed him, it all felt like a performance designed for an audience of one: me. The winking emoji wasn' t just a flirtatious jab; it was a declaration of victory.

In the photo, Ewing turned his head slightly, and even though it was blurry, I could see the smile on his face. It was the soft, unguarded smile he rarely gave me anymore-the one I' d fallen in love with seven years ago. A smile that now felt like it belonged to someone else.

My hands didn't shake. My eyes didn't fill with tears. A strange, glacial calm washed over me. The years of excuses, the late-night calls, the "we' re just friends" reassurances-they all clicked into place, forming a picture as clear and devastating as the one on my screen. I wasn' t his partner. I was his placeholder. A convenient, less-intimidating version of the woman he' d always wanted.

I took a deep breath, the smell of turkey now making me nauseous. I picked up my phone and sent a single text to Ewing.

"We' re done."

Then, I opened my contacts and dialed a number I hadn' t called in months.

"Dad?" I said, my voice steady. "I' m coming home."

A few seconds later, my phone buzzed. It was Ewing.

"What' s that supposed to mean? Don' t be dramatic, Haven."

Another buzz.

"I' m almost done here. Bree' s making me a sandwich. I' ll be home in an hour, and you can tell me what' s wrong. Don' t start without me."

He thought this was a game. He thought I was throwing a tantrum, that I' d be waiting with a plate of warm food and a forced smile, ready to be placated with a kiss and a half-hearted apology. He always believed he could win me back, that my love for him was an endless, renewable resource he could tap into whenever he pleased.

For seven years, I had let him believe it. I had convinced myself that my patience, my unwavering support, was a sign of strength. I followed him to Denver, leaving my family and a promising career in New York behind. I took a low-profile job as a drafter at a small architectural firm, hiding my background as the heiress to the Holden Properties empire, all so I wouldn' t intimidate him, so he could feel like the successful one.

I had made myself small to fit into his world.

But I wasn' t going to be small anymore. I wasn' t going to be easily appeased.

I didn' t reply to his texts. The silence stretched, and I knew he wouldn' t think anything of it. He was with Bree. He wouldn' t be thinking of me at all.

An hour later, my phone pinged with a notification, but it wasn' t from Ewing. It was a video message. From Bree.

My finger hesitated over the play button before a cold sense of finality pushed it down.

The video was shaky, clearly filmed on a phone. It was a recording of a video call. Bree' s face was in a small window in the corner, looking smug. The main screen showed Ewing, sitting in what looked like a bar with a couple of his friends. He was laughing, a beer in his hand.

"So she really said 'we' re done' ?" one of his friends asked, slurring his words slightly.

Ewing took a long swallow of his beer and shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. "You know how she gets. She' s just being dramatic, wants some attention. It' s Thanksgiving. She' s probably upset I' m not there to praise her cooking."

The friends laughed.

"You' re not going to even call her?"

"Nah," Ewing said, shaking his head. "Can' t indulge this kind of behavior. She needs to learn. She' ll cool down. She always does." He then looked directly into the camera of his laptop, his eyes finding Bree' s. A genuine, warm smile spread across his face. "Besides, I' m busy."

He reached out and gently touched the screen, as if he could stroke her cheek through the pixels.

His friends started hooting. "Just get with Bree already, man! It' s obvious you' re still hung up on her."

"Yeah, dump the copy and get the original!"

Bree giggled, a prim, practiced sound. "Don' t say that, guys. Ewing needs to go home and make up with Haven. It' s not right." Her words were a flimsy shield for the triumphant glint in her eyes.

Ewing' s smile softened even more. He shook his head again, his gaze locked on Bree. "Don' t worry about it. She' ll be fine. A new necklace or a weekend trip, and she' ll forget all about it. She' s easy."

The video ended.

A sour taste filled my mouth. Easy. That' s what he thought of me. Seven years of love, of sacrifice, of building a life together, and it all boiled down to that one, dismissive word.

My mind flashed back to the day we met. I was a freshman in college, he was a sophomore. He was standing on the library steps, sunlight catching in his dark hair, laughing at something a friend said. I was instantly, irrevocably smitten. I spent a month working up the courage to talk to him, finally confessing my crush in a flustered, rambling speech outside the architecture building.

I remember the exact moment. The way he looked at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, before a slow smile spread across his face. He reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "Actually," he'd said, his voice a low rumble, "I was just about to ask you out." He had gently ruffled my hair, a gesture that would become his signature move, a sign of affection that always made my heart flutter.

I thought I would remember that moment forever, that it was the perfect, beautiful start to our love story.

Now, the memory felt tainted, like a photograph left out in the sun, its colors faded and distorted.

The first crack appeared a year into our relationship. We were in bed, tangled in the sheets after making love, and in that hazy, blissful aftermath, he whispered a name against my skin. "Bree."

The name hung in the air between us, cold and sharp. It was the first time we' d ever had a real fight, the first time I felt the icy grip of insecurity. We didn' t speak for three days. He finally broke the silence, showing up at my dorm with a bouquet of my favorite lilies and a small, silver locket. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes.

"She' s just someone I had a crush on in high school," he' d explained, his voice rough with fatigue. "She rejected me. It meant nothing, Haven. You' re the one I' m with."

I saw the weariness in his face, and my anger melted into pity. I loved him. I wanted to believe him. So I did. I accepted the locket, let him pull me into his arms, and we never spoke of it again.

I had been so confident then. So sure that Bree Campbell was just a ghost from his past, a shadow that couldn't possibly touch the bright, solid reality of our love. I believed I was his present, his future. I never realized I was just an echo of his past.

For four years of college, my love for him was pure and all-consuming. I helped him with his projects, typed his papers, and celebrated his successes as if they were my own. When he decided to move to Denver after graduation, I didn' t hesitate. I fought with my family, turned my back on the life they had planned for me, and followed him without a second thought. My father' s words still echoed in my ears: "Haven, love should not require you to erase yourself." I had thought he was being dramatic. Now I saw he was just being honest.

He had been good to me, in his own way. He remembered my coffee order, bought me flowers on our anniversary, and told me he loved me before we went to sleep. He promised we' d get married, that we' d build our dream house together, that every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year' s would be ours. I clung to those promises, building my entire world upon them.

It wasn' t until Bree moved back to the States six months ago that the foundation began to crumble. The late-night calls started. The canceled dates. The holidays spent apart because Bree had a "crisis."

And now I knew the truth. His confession to me on the library steps wasn't a spontaneous moment of affection; it was a calculated move to soothe the sting of Bree's rejection. The way he treated me, the things he bought me, the places he took me-it was all a rehearsal. He was practicing on me, perfecting the role of the devoted boyfriend for the day the real star of his show decided to return. My favorite flowers were her favorite flowers. The restaurant he took me to for my twenty-first birthday was the same one he' d planned to take her to for prom.

I was just a stand-in. A tool to pass the time until his true love was available again.

And his promises? Marriage? Holidays together? He probably didn't even remember making them.

He had forgotten. But I hadn't.

My father' s long-standing proposition echoed in my mind. A marriage of convenience, an alliance between two powerful families. With Kasen Coleman. I barely knew him, but I knew his reputation. Brilliant, ruthless, the self-made CEO of Vanguard Innovations. Our families had been trying to set us up for years. I had always refused, blinded by my love for Ewing.

But now, the idea didn' t seem so bad. It was a clean break. A new life. A future where I would never again have to wonder if I was second best.

My phone buzzed again, dragging me back to the present. It was a text from an unknown number.

"Haven, this is Ewing. Why did you block me? Stop this ridiculous game. I' m coming home now and we are going to talk this out."

I stared at the message, a bitter smile touching my lips.

He still didn' t get it. He still thought he was in control.

I typed a final reply, my fingers moving with a speed and certainty that felt foreign.

"Don' t bother. By the time you get here, I' ll be gone. I' m going back to New York. To get married."

This time, I didn't wait for his response. I powered off my phone and tossed it onto the couch.

It was over. For real this time.

Haven Holden POV:

Ewing didn' t come home that night. I wasn' t surprised. What did surprise me was that for the first time in seven years, I slept soundly, uninterrupted by the anxiety of waiting for his key in the lock. It was a deep, dreamless sleep, and when I woke, the morning light filtering through the blinds felt like a promise.

The sound of clattering from the kitchen stirred me from my newfound peace. My heart gave a familiar, reflexive lurch before I remembered. It didn' t matter anymore.

I found him standing over the stove, reheating the Thanksgiving leftovers I had packed away in the fridge. The scent of turkey and gravy filled the air, a mockery of the holiday we' d missed.

"Morning," he said, not looking at me. He scooped a pile of mashed potatoes onto a plate. "I figured we could have our Thanksgiving today. Make up for yesterday."

He took a bite of the turkey, his eyes closing in exaggerated appreciation. "Wow, Haven. You really outdid yourself. This is amazing."

I watched him, a strange sense of detachment settling over me. He was trying. In his own clumsy, self-centered way, this was his attempt at an apology. In the past, this small gesture would have been enough to make me melt, to forgive him for whatever slight he' d committed. I would have seen the effort, not the inadequacy.

But now, all I saw was the performance.

"We don' t need to make up for anything, Ewing," I said, my voice even. "It' s over."

His fork clattered against the plate. He finally turned to look at me, a deep frown creasing his brow. "Haven, stop it. This isn' t funny."

He wiped his hands on a napkin and walked over to the counter, picking up a small white box tied with a red ribbon. He pushed it towards me. "Here. I got you something."

I didn' t move.

"It' s that cheesecake you like," he said, his voice taking on a strained, impatient edge. "From the bakery downtown."

A sharp, painful pulse went through me. He thought I liked cheesecake. Bree liked cheesecake. I was allergic to dairy. After seven years, he still didn' t know that. Seven years of me politely declining dessert, of me picking cheese off my pizza, of me carefully reading labels at the grocery store. Seven years, and he hadn' t noticed.

The weight of those seven years suddenly felt unbearable. It was a waste. A long, drawn-out mistake built on a foundation of his fantasy and my delusion.

Ewing' s jaw tightened. The charming, easy-going mask was slipping, revealing the raw arrogance beneath. "Look, Haven, I' m trying here. I said I was sorry. Bree even told me I should come home and make it up to you. I' m giving you a chance to get over this. Don' t push it."

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of pure frustration. "Are we done with this little drama? I expect you to stop bringing up breaking up in the future."

My silence seemed to unnerve him more than any screaming match ever could. I just looked at him, really looked at him, and saw a stranger.

"I' m serious, Ewing," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "We. Are. Over."

Just then, his phone rang. A cheerful, upbeat pop song I' d never heard before. Bree' s ringtone. Of course.

His entire demeanor shifted. The irritation vanished, replaced by a gentle concern that made my stomach churn. "Hey," he said into the phone, his voice soft. "What' s wrong?"

A pause.

"Your car won' t start? Okay, don' t worry. I' ll be right there."

He hung up and grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door, his face once again a cold, dismissive mask. He didn' t even look at me. "We' ll finish this conversation later," he said, his voice clipped and final.

And then he was gone.

I didn' t watch him go. I didn' t feel the familiar pang of being left behind. I just felt... nothing. The emotional tether that had bound me to him for so long had finally snapped.

I spent the rest of the holiday weekend at my office, methodically sorting through my project files and packing up my personal belongings. On Monday, I would submit my resignation. I would leave Denver and never look back.

That evening, feeling a strange mix of liberation and emptiness, I decided to do something for myself. There was a new, trendy restaurant downtown that I had been wanting to try for months. I' d asked Ewing to take me there for my birthday, but he' d said it was too expensive, too pretentious. We' d ended up at our usual burger joint instead.

Tonight, I was going alone.

The restaurant was buzzing with life, the air filled with the sounds of clinking glasses and happy chatter. I found a small table in the corner and ordered everything on the menu that had appealed to me, things Ewing would have scoffed at.

And then I saw them.

They were sitting at a cozy booth by the window, so close their shoulders were touching. The table was laden with food-all of Bree' s favorites, I noted with a detached bitterness. I had spent years catering to Ewing' s bland palate, and here he was, happily eating spicy Thai food because it was what she wanted.

Bree picked up a spring roll, took a small bite, and then, with a playful smile, held it up to Ewing' s lips. He leaned in and took a bite, his cheeks flushing a faint pink.

It was a small, intimate gesture, but it hit me with the force of a physical blow. Ewing was never shy. He was confident, sometimes to the point of arrogance. But in that moment, with Bree, he looked... bashful. It was a side of him I had never seen, reserved only for the person he was genuinely, deeply infatuated with.

He said something to her, his expression a mixture of nervousness and hope. I couldn' t hear the words, but I knew what he was asking. He wanted to take a picture. A picture he could keep, a tangible memory of this perfect moment with his dream girl.

Bree laughed and playfully pushed his shoulder. Then, her eyes flickered across the room and landed directly on me.

Haven Holden POV:

Bree' s expression was one of pure, theatrical surprise, but her eyes held a glint of cruel amusement. She was enjoying this. She was expecting a scene, a repeat of the countless times I had broken down in the past, my composure shattering at the sight of her and Ewing together.

I thought of all the moments he had chosen her over me. My college graduation, which he missed because Bree needed a ride to the airport. Our fifth anniversary, which he cut short because Bree had a fight with her on-again, off-again boyfriend. The countless nights I had lain awake, waiting for him to come home from "cheering her up."

Each time, I had confronted him. My voice would rise, thick with tears and accusations. "Why is she always more important than me? Do you even love me, Ewing?"

And he would always respond with the same cool, detached patience. "Don' t be ridiculous, Haven. She' s my best friend. You' re being insecure."

He made me feel like I was the crazy one, the demanding one. And I, desperate for his love, had always, eventually, backed down.

Looking at them now, in this restaurant he had refused to bring me to, a cold realization washed over me. He didn' t want to come here with me because this was their place. A place he was saving for her.

My pain was invisible to him because he simply didn' t care enough to see it. And my hysterics only served as entertainment for Bree.

Not this time.

I took a deep breath, stood up, and walked over to their table. A placid smile was fixed on my face.

"Hi," I said, my voice light and pleasant. "Looks like you' re having a great time. Did you want me to take a picture for you both?"

Ewing froze, a piece of shrimp halfway to his mouth. The color drained from his face, his embarrassment quickly morphing into a flash of anger. He looked cornered, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Haven? What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed, his voice low and furious. "Are you following me? This is exactly what I' m talking about. You' re so suffocating."

He slammed his chopsticks down on the table. "Is this why you sent that ridiculous text? To guilt-trip me? I can' t even have a meal with a friend without you making a scene. No wonder I need space."

The sheer hypocrisy of his words was breathtaking. He was the one who abandoned our Thanksgiving for this "friend." He was the one sitting in a romantic booth, sharing food in the most intimate way possible. And I was the one making a scene?

"I' m just here to eat dinner, Ewing," I said, my voice still calm. The steadiness of it seemed to unnerve him more than any shouting would have.

"And we are broken up. Remember? What you do, and who you do it with, is none of my business."

Bree' s perfectly made-up face registered a flicker of surprise. This was not the reaction she had anticipated. She quickly recovered, pasting on a concerned expression.

"Haven, don' t say that," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "You' re just upset. Ewing was just keeping me company because I wasn' t feeling well. He was worried about you the whole time."

It was the same manipulative, saccharine performance she always gave. The damsel in distress who just happened to need my boyfriend' s constant attention. I used to agonize over her words, trying to decipher their hidden meaning. Now, they just sounded pathetic.

I ignored her completely. My business was with Ewing, and that business was finished.

"Enjoy your meal," I said, turning away from them. I walked to an empty table across the room and sat down, my back to them.

In the past, I would have stormed out, blinded by tears. I would have spent the night replaying the scene in my head, dissecting every word, every look, torturing myself. But tonight was different. I wasn' t in the wrong. I just wanted to eat my damn dinner.

The waiter came, and I ordered with a newfound sense of freedom, choosing all the dishes I truly loved without a thought for anyone else' s preferences. The food arrived, and it was glorious. Spicy, flavorful, and all mine. I savored every bite, a small, genuine smile on my face. I had denied myself so much for so long. No more.

As I ate, their conversation drifted over to me.

"She' s never been like this before," Bree said, her voice a stage whisper. "You' re not very good at handling her anymore, Ewing."

I could imagine the pout on her face, the subtle challenge in her tone.

"When you used to come to me, upset about some girl who had a crush on you," she continued, her voice laced with nostalgia, "you would just buy her a little gift, say a few nice words, and she' d be happy again. You' ve lost your touch."

There was a long pause. I held my breath, waiting for Ewing' s defense.

"She' s not them," he said finally, his voice low and tight. "You can' t compare Haven to them."

A fork clattered against my plate. The spicy chili sauce suddenly felt like fire on my tongue, and my eyes began to water. I quickly took a sip of water, trying to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat.

Seven years. Seven years of devotion, of sacrifice, of unconditional love, and all it earned me was that. A backhanded compliment that still placed me leagues below her.

I had spent so much of our relationship wondering what was wrong with me. Why wasn' t I enough? Was I not pretty enough, not smart enough, not interesting enough? I tried so hard to be the perfect girlfriend, hoping that one day he would finally see me, truly see me, and choose me without reservation.

Now I knew. It was never about me. It was never my fault.

His heart had been given away long before I ever came into the picture. I was just trying to fill a space that was never meant for me.

The realization was a bitter pill, but it was also liberating. The addiction I had to his approval, the constant craving for his affection-it was over.

I was finally free.