Love No More

It has been fifty-five days since my fiancé cut me off. I called off the wedding I'd waited eight long years for. All while he was caring for his childhood sweetheart, who was battling depression and seeking peace at a remote retreat. He even had the historic chapel—a local landmark called the Aethelred Sanctuary—closed to the public for six months because of her.

And me? I was left to face the swarming reporters, hounded from one place to the next until I had nowhere left to hide—all because he disappeared without a word.

Out of options, I went to the retreat to find him. But he turned me away, saying I would disturb the quiet and sanctity of the place. In the bitter cold of deep winter, I collapsed outside the gates, barely holding on.

When I woke, I saw him—Jonathan—planting an entire garden of roses on the grounds, every bloom a declaration of love.

Six months later, he finally left and returned home with his childhood sweetheart. The roses they had planted now filled what was supposed to be our wedding venue, from floor to ceiling. I watched them, cold and unmoved.

What he didn't know was this—I was already engaged to someone else.

While picking out a ring in the store, I saw Jonathan Baxter for the first time in six months.

The salesperson's cheerful commentary on the diamond ring I was trying on barely reached my ears. My eyes were fixed on him, looking slightly preoccupied across the room.

When he noticed the ring on my finger, he walked over, expression cool, and asked, "How come you came alone? I was actually going to surprise you."

His tone was casual, but I saw the shopping bag in his hand—a set of diamond necklaces. Not for me. For Chloe Morris.

Yesterday, when they had returned, I'd overheard her murmuring to him, asking for diamond necklaces as her birthday gift. And here Jonathan was, already delivering.

Of course—whatever Chloe wanted, no matter the effort, he made it happen.

Not like me. All I'd ever wanted was a wedding. A wedding I had waited eight years for, and never received.

So this time, Jonathan, I would wait no longer.

I took a few steps back, silently slid the ring off my finger, and handed it to the clerk to put away. Instantly, Jonathan pulled out his card to pay.

Before I could explain to the salesperson, my gaze caught on the strand of prayer beads around his wrist.

Just yesterday, when Chloe announced her return to the public eye, one of the photos in her post had prominently featured those same beads. At a glance, they seemed out of place among the other glamorous shots—but someone online recognized them as exclusive items from the historic retreat he'd closed for her.

Soon, the story of the place's six-month closure and the identity of the bracelet's owner was everywhere. Paparazzi had captured footage of Chloe and him leaving the grounds. Even without