Chapter 3

I gave myself a few days off.

I read, took yoga classes at the gym, listened to music, and placed a small succulent on my windowsill.

During those quiet days alone, I grew calmer—and more certain than ever that I’d made the right choice.

I was never meant to live like this.

A man like Leo Kingston could never make me happy, even if we married.

I knew his parents didn’t like me. They saw me as socially irrelevant—useful only for the trust fund my parents left behind, but offering nothing in terms of status or connections to advance Leo’s future in their tech empire.

Still, since Leo had always resisted an arranged marriage, having a fiancée—even one like me—was better than none at all.

One evening, Chloe Bennett texted me about a new speakeasy in Capitol Hill. “They serve your favorite lychee martini,” she wrote. “You should go unwind.”

I agreed.

The moment I settled onto a stool at the bar and ordered my drink, a group in the nearby booth turned toward me.

It was Leo and his circle—Seattle’s elite tech investors, polished and smug.

None of them called out my name. They must have already heard the story from him.

I ignored them.

The bartender slid my martini across the counter. I took a sip—sweet lychee layered over crisp vodka, smooth yet sharp. Undeniably excellent.

Just as I lifted the glass again, a shadow fell over me.

Leo stood there.

“When are you coming home?” he asked, voice light, as if he hadn’t struck me days before.

I said nothing, sipping my drink slowly.

“Is your face feeling better?” His tone softened, but when I still didn’t respond, frustration crept in. “How long are you going to keep this up?”

I let out a dry laugh. “Keep what up? Weren’t you the one who told me to leave if I had any pride?”

“My face is none of your concern,” I added coolly. “You know exactly who caused it.”

He stared at me, stunned into silence.

“Do you have to be so unreasonable?” He rubbed his temples, exasperated, as though I were the irrational one. “You broke someone else’s cherished possession and act like you did nothing wrong.”

I stayed quiet. Talking to him felt pointless now.

“You’re moving back in tomorrow,” he said, voice firming. “I’ll overlook what happened. The engagement party will proceed as planned.”

“No.” The word came out slow, steady, final.

“I’ve already rented my own place.”

I met his eyes directly. “It’s over, Leo.”

He laughed—a short, bitter sound. “Fine. Perfect.” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Remember those words, Mia Harper.”

Then he walked away without looking back.

I hated that condescending calm of his—the same attitude that had governed our entire relationship. For ten years, I’d been summoned when convenient, dismissed when not. Just another tool in his life.

Even now, seeing those deep-set eyes of his made something ache inside me. Ten years don’t vanish overnight.

But real freedom isn’t instant. It’s carved out through repeated acts of refusal—each one stripping away another layer of illusion until clarity remains.

I downed the rest of my martini. The burn in my throat felt like release.

So what if it was ten years? People stay married twenty and still end in ruin.

Maybe I should be grateful I never stepped into that tomb called marriage.

Time doesn’t measure love. The way someone looks at you does.

After that night, life settled into a rhythm again. I returned to my downtown Seattle tech firm, slipping back into meetings, emails, deadlines.

My colleagues noticed my long absence. “Everything okay?” they asked gently.

“I’m fine,” I smiled. “Just needed a break.”

Right after work, Chloe texted:

“Leo invited us both to dinner tonight at Canlis. Are you going?”

“No.”

“You sure? Maybe it’s a chance to clear the air.”

She typed for a long time before sending that last line. It sounded like encouragement—but also like hope.

And maybe she was right.

At eight o’clock, I arrived at the restaurant.

I waited outside. And waited. Leo showed up—but Chloe never did.

That’s when I realized I’d been set up.

“That woman,” I muttered under my breath. “I’ll deal with her later.”

Leo and I entered the restaurant in silence.

We ordered. Then came the quiet—the kind thick with everything unsaid.

“Mia,” he finally spoke, voice rough. “What happened that night… it was my fault.”

“I shouldn’t have hit you. I’m sorry.” He smelled faintly of tobacco. He’d started smoking again.

I almost told him to quit. But the words died in my throat.

What right did I have anymore?

Before I could respond, my phone rang—an unknown number.

The second I answered, I saw Leo’s expression shift. His furrowed brow smoothed instantly, as if spring had broken through ice. A softness touched his lips—warm, genuine, utterly unfamiliar to me.

He gave me an apologetic glance and stepped outside to take the call.

Through the window, I watched him lean against the corridor wall, laughing quietly, eyes alight with a tenderness I’d never seen directed at me.

There was no doubt.

Olivia Grant was back.

Part of me wanted to march out there and demand a choice: her or me. But my legs wouldn’t move. My chest tightened like a fist was squeezing my heart, stealing my breath.

Don’t humiliate yourself further.

I stood, left cash on the table, and walked out.

As I passed him in the doorway, our eyes met. His smile hadn’t faded yet—they’d been laughing about something, clearly enjoying themselves.

I stepped past him, hailed a cab, and drove away without looking back.

He hadn’t even hung up Olivia’s call.

And I finally accepted the truth: I was the one who wasn’t loved.

Back in the taxi, I dialed Chloe.

“Meet me at Swedish Medical Center,” I said. “I need to do something.”