Chapter 4

"Let’s cancel tomorrow’s plan to meet the wedding planner."

I glanced at the elegant Smythson calendar on the table. Under tomorrow’s date, I had written in graceful script: "Final confirmation of wedding menu and floral design."

I didn’t know why Vincent wanted to cancel so suddenly, but truthfully, I had no intention of going through with this wedding anyway. Even if he hadn’t suggested it, I would’ve found an excuse to postpone. Now that he brought it up first, it saved me the trouble.

I nodded.

"Alright, I’ll call and let them know."

The moment the words left my mouth, Vincent felt a sinking sensation. He hadn’t expected me to agree so readily.

He thought I’d question him, demand a reason. After all, I’d spent months meticulously planning every detail of this wedding. Even the chef for tomorrow’s meeting—Chicago’s top culinary talent—had agreed to create a custom menu only after I pulled every string I could. All of it was for the perfect wedding.

He didn’t anticipate that I’d accept his decision so calmly.

Vincent’s expression grew complicated as he looked at me.

"You don’t have to cancel the appointment."

"Serafina said she’ll never have the chance to get married in her lifetime. She wants to visit the Amalfi Coast with me, just to… experience something like a wedding, so she can live without regrets."

"We’re leaving tomorrow. As for the menu and the flowers, we can deal with them when we get back. There’s still time."

Vincent’s tone was casual, as if he were discussing a routine business matter. The same nonchalance he had when, a month ago, he informed me of his plans to undergo IVF with Serafina. On the surface, it sounded like a discussion, but every word made it clear: his decision was made, and he was merely notifying me.

My lowered gaze hid the sarcasm in my eyes.

"Deal with it when we get back?"

Vincent had no idea I would only be in Chicago for thirteen more days. There was no "later" for us.

I responded softly, "Alright," and then turned back to the bedroom to rest.

Since this wedding wasn’t going to happen, it didn’t matter to me which woman Vincent chose to spend his "intimate getaway" with.

Watching my retreating figure, Vincent felt an inexplicable unease.

I was too calm—so calm that I didn’t even question him. The arguments he’d prepared to suppress my protests were left completely unused.

But then, Serafina’s call came through. He quickly pushed aside his lingering doubts and stepped out onto the terrace, speaking in his usual soft, low Italian.

When I woke up the next morning, Vincent was getting ready to leave.

Fastening his Patek Philippe around his wrist, he said, "We might stay at the Amalfi Coast for about a week. She’s always wanted to see it."

"As for the wedding, just keep things simple. I don’t have the time for any rehearsals. You can make all the decisions; there’s no need to consult me."

I swallowed the bite of toast in my mouth and replied, "Alright."

Keep it simple.

There would be no finalized menu for this wedding, no carefully arranged flowers, no crowded guests.

And, naturally, no bride.

Vincent glanced at me, noticing how I silently ate my breakfast, unnervingly composed. That strange feeling in his chest surfaced again. After a moment, he added, "After the wedding, let’s go to Greece for the honeymoon. I remember you’ve always wanted to visit Santorini."

If it had been before, hearing Vincent suggest a honeymoon would’ve filled me with excitement. I would’ve immediately started planning every detail.

After all, he’d never agreed to travel with me anywhere in the past. He always said he didn’t like it, that it was a waste of time.

But now, I simply focused on finishing my bread, offering no response.

There wouldn’t be a wedding. So where would a honeymoon come from?

Vincent looked at me in mild surprise, as if he wanted to say more. But when his eyes caught the clock on the wall, he hurriedly opened the door and left, tossing out a quick, "We’ll talk when I get back."

I picked up the calendar on the table and, with a firm stroke of my pen, drew a large X over the words "Final confirmation of wedding menu and floral design."

Twelve days left.

After finishing my breakfast, I began packing my belongings, clearing away unnecessary items from the penthouse.

The silver photo frame that held fewer than five pictures. The dusty home theater system. The matching Loro Piana cashmere robes I’d custom-ordered but we’d never worn—not even once.

In these five years together, I had carefully curated and filled this penthouse with things that transformed a cold, empty space into what appeared to be a warm and inviting "home."

But upon closer inspection, many of these things had never even been touched by Vincent.

He always said that even in a relationship, he was still Vincent Moretti—an independent individual. He hated using matching items, claiming they made him feel tied down, like some ordinary person.

I shook myself out of my thoughts and continued sorting.

Once I left, these things would only get in his way. Better to deal with them now myself.

And with them, erase every trace of our memories together.