Memories have dried up my true feelings

When Albert—Betty’s assistant—used some absurd wager as an excuse for the seventh time to make her cancel our wedding, I told myself it was just her peculiar way of holding on to top talent.

Three years. Seven times.

Then came the eighth.

The emcee was launching his third enthusiastic warm-up from the stage, and the guests’ murmurs had already swelled into open chatter.

My phone glowed. A message from Albert. A photo.

Below it, a voice note—also from him, his tone soaked in undisguised amusement and spite:

“Roger, sorry. Betty and I made another bet. She says if you can find us within the hour, she’ll marry you. Pity… you won’t.”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t go looking.

Instead, I slowly scrolled through my contacts, found the number I’d kept pinned at the top for three years but never called.

“Kimberly. What you said to me three years ago… does it still stand?”

......

A pause on the other end, then a soft laugh, edged with something like pity. “Roger, when I give my word, it’s for life. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

“Starlight Hotel. The wedding venue.” I hung up.

I looked out at the sea of guests, their eyes a mix of sympathy and mockery. For the first time, I didn’t cover for Betty.

“Roger! Have you lost your mind? Do you want to make our family the city’s laughingstock?”

Rebecca, my future mother-in-law, stood backstage jabbing a finger at me, her face flushed with fury. There wasn’t a trace of concern for her missing daughter—only panic over a crumbling alliance of fortunes.

“Mom,” I said, meeting her gaze calmly. “Do I need to remind you? Right now, standing here alone, facing all this—the one being humiliated is me.”

“You!” My uncharacteristic coldness choked her. Her voice sharpened. “Betty’s just being childish! Can’t you be more mature? She’s doing this for the company! To keep a genius like Albert! You’re a grown man—can’t you understand? It’s only the eighth time! What’s one more after seven?”

*What’s one more after seven?*

The words twisted like a poisoned blade.

Right. Seven times already.

The first time, she said Albert threatened to quit—betting she wouldn’t dare sign a contract in another city on our wedding day. She went. The wedding was postponed. I told myself it was for the company’s future.

The third time, she said Albert was in a foul mood—betting she wouldn’t cut off her long hair because his dog was “depressed” and needed cheering up. She cut it. She came back with uneven short hair and cried in my arms. I held her, heart aching, and told myself she cared about her people.

The sixth time, she said Albert’s first love was getting married and he was heartbroken—betting she wouldn’t dare go with him as his pretend girlfriend. She went. Wearing the dress I gave her, on another man’s arm, smiling brightly in a photo on someone else’s social media. I told myself she was just