1 On Grandma’s deathbed, Peter finally agreed to drive me home. She was clinging to life, desperate to meet the man I’d loved for seven years. Midway, Violet called, sobbing she was alone at the hospital. Peter fell silent, then spun the car around. “Explain to Grandma for me,” he said. “Violet saved my life once. I can’t leave her.” I stood roadside, watching his taillights fade. This wasn’t new. He’d ditched my birthday for her gala dress, ignored my fever for her therapy. Now, Grandma’s final wish still lost to Violet. At 3 A.M., Grandma squeezed my hand, voice thin. “Is he here, sweetheart?” I forced a smile. “Almost.” But she died before he came. I closed her eyes and tucked her wedding gift, the red envelope she’d clutched all night, into the bedside drawer. His text lit my screen: Violet’s asleep. Heading over now. I didn’t reply. Just shut the drawer, locking away the girl who’d waited seven years. … On the day of my grandmother's funeral, I didn't tell Peter. I hired the hearse myself. I held her urn myself. I stood on the windy hillside of my hometown, watching the gravediggers fill the dirt, entirely by myself. My aunt was sobbing so hard she could barely stand. She grabbed my arm, her voice thick with grief and anger. "Freya, where is that man of yours? Your grandmother is gone, and he can't even show his face?" "He's busy." My throat was completely raw. I couldn't bring myself to say another word. When the last shovel of dirt was patted down, I crouched in front of the headstone and placed a plate of her favorite lemon bars on the grass. My phone vibrated. It was Peter. His tone was surprisingly warm. "Freya, I'm at the furniture showroom looking at dining tables for the new house. Do you like the round mahogany one, or the long rectangular one?" I gripped the phone, freezing for a few seconds. It had been a very long time since he asked me what I liked. Just as I opened my mouth to answer, Violet's voice drifted through the receiver. "Peter, definitely the rectangular one. Freya only has a few relatives anyway, right? It's plenty of space." Peter hummed in agreement, then asked me, "What do you think?" "I..." "Oh, and look at this credenza!" Violet must have leaned closer to his phone, because her voice was crystal clear. "The white is way too boring. The walnut finish looks much more expensive. Freya always dresses so plain, you don't want the house to look depressing too, right?" Peter let out a soft chuckle. "You're right. She doesn't really have an eye for these things." My knuckles turned white. I had wanted the round table. Because my grandmother always told me that when a family eats, they should sit in a circle, facing each other. That's what makes a home. Peter was still talking. "Freya, why are you so quiet? Which one do you want?" Violet's voice took on a sweet, coaxing tone in the background. "Peter, let's just get this set. I'm sure Freya won't mind. She is always so easygoing." Hearing the word easygoing made me feel incredibly, profoundly tired. Peter and I had been together for years, and things had always been good. But ever since his old professor returned from Europe and brought Violet back with him, I realized some things had never actually changed. Back in college, they were the golden couple of their department. They were completely in sync. Even their professors used to lament that it was a tragedy they never dated. When Violet came back, that unspoken chemistry became impossible to ignore. Peter was entirely used to listening to her. He consulted her on corporate strategy, and subconsciously deferred to her on personal choices. And Violet acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. She managed his schedule, made decisions for him, and practically arranged his life. Most of the time, she would finalize everything before casually tossing an apology my way. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Freya. Did I overstep?" From the dining table to the living room sofa, to the curtains and our bedsheets. It was supposed to be the house I was moving into, but I couldn't even get a single word of input in. I stayed silent for a long time before finally saying, "Whatever you guys want." The line went quiet for a second. Peter sounded relieved. "Alright, we'll go with Violet's choice." I hung up the phone and gently pressed the last lemon bar into the dirt. "I'm sorry, Grammy. I'm sorry I have to leave you here all alone." On the bus ride back to the city, Peter called me again. This time, he sounded rushed. "Freya, I heard you went back to your hometown by yourself? Why didn't you tell me? I'll drive up tomorrow so we can go see your grandmother together." I stared out the window. She was already buried in the ground, and he didn't even know she was dead. "Don't bother. The funeral is over." Dead silence on the other end. Then, his voice cracked slightly. "Why didn't you tell me? I..." The call abruptly disconnected. Violet probably needed him again. That afternoon, Peter's mother called me. The second I answered, she launched right in. "Freya, I heard your grandmother passed away. My condolences." "But the wedding is only two weeks away. Keep the mourning period brief and low-key. We don't want any bad luck ruining the ceremony." I gripped the phone tightly. She kept going. "Peter has been under a lot of stress lately, and Violet's health is so fragile. Don't go piling your emotional baggage onto him." "Violet is going to be your maid of honor. She has a weak constitution, so don't make her run around doing chores on the wedding day. You don't have many relatives on your side anyway, so just keep the itinerary simple." I closed my eyes. "I don't have any relatives." She paused for a second, completely ignoring what I said. "Just make sure the wedding goes smoothly. If your grandmother were still here, she would want you to marry into our family with dignity." Of course my grandmother wanted me to have a beautiful wedding. That was why she held onto that red envelope all night, waiting for him. But none of them cared. That night, I opened Instagram. Violet had posted a new story. It was a selfie of her and Peter at an exclusive sushi restaurant. She was holding a piece of salmon with her chopsticks, tilting her head and smiling brightly at the camera. Peter was sitting across from her. His face wasn't in the frame, but I instantly recognized the expensive watch on the wrist of the man pouring soy sauce onto her plate. The caption read: So grateful for Peter taking time out of his crazy schedule to feed me. This sick girl is very touched. It was posted at 6:00 PM. The exact same time I told him my grandmother was buried in the ground, he was pouring soy sauce for Violet. I placed my phone face down on the mattress and rolled over. I stared at the ceiling for a very, very long time. Three days after I returned to the city, I went to the wedding planner's office. The receptionist recognized me immediately and smiled warmly. "Miss Davis! Violet was just here this morning to sign off on the final proofs for the invitations." "Final proofs?" "Yes, for the invites." She pulled out a sample from a folder and handed it to me. "Violet said you gave her full authorization, so we went ahead and had her sign the approval forms." I looked down at the heavy cardstock. The font had been completely changed. Beneath the gold-foiled names, the monogram read PC. P for Prescott. Peter's last name. "What does the C stand for?" The receptionist looked slightly confused. She checked her notes. "Oh, Violet said the bride's middle name is Claire." Claire? Violet's middle name was Claire. I stared at the monogram and let out a soft, dry laugh. "Cancel the wedding." The receptionist froze. "I'm sorry, Miss Davis, what did you say?" "Terminate the contract. You can keep the deposit. I will pay whatever the cancellation fee is." I placed my platinum credit card onto the marble counter. The receptionist panicked and made three frantic phone calls. The lead planner rushed into the lobby, gently grabbing my hand. "Miss Davis, did you and Mr. Prescott have a fight? Please, take some time to think this over! If Violet did something..." "This has nothing to do with her." I signed the termination paperwork and stood up. As I turned around, Violet walked through the glass doors. She was wearing a pristine white sundress, carrying the designer handbag Peter had bought her last month. When she saw me, she blinked in surprise, then smiled brightly and walked over. "Freya! You're here too? I was just looking for you to talk about the bridesmaid dresses..." "Don't worry about it. You can just talk to the planner." I stepped around her, heading for the door. She quickly chased after me, grabbing my wrist. "Freya, are you mad at me? Is this about the dessert menu? I swear I wasn't trying to overstep, I just genuinely thought cranberry matched the color palette better..." I looked down at her hand. Pale, delicate, with perfectly manicured nails painted a soft blush pink. It made me think of my grandmother's gnarled, arthritis-ridden hands. "Violet." I gently pulled my wrist out of her grip. "I picked the lemon bars because my grandmother loved lemon." Her face went completely rigid for a split second. Then, she instantly slipped back into her victim persona, her eyes wide and innocent. "I had no idea... Freya, why didn't you just tell me? If I had known, I never would have changed it!" Seven years. Every single time, it was always Why didn't you just tell me? When I did tell her, she pretended she didn't hear it. When I stayed quiet, she assumed I was fine with whatever she wanted. "It's fine," I smiled faintly. "Your choice was perfect." "I have to go." When I walked out of the building, the glaring afternoon sun made me dizzy. My stomach started burning again. It was a dull, heavy, rhythmic pain. It started three months ago, and the flare-ups were getting worse. I leaned against a concrete pillar by the sidewalk, dug a bottle out of my purse, and dry-swallowed two painkillers. The day I got my diagnosis three months ago, I sat on a hard plastic chair in the oncology ward and called Peter. He didn't pick up until the seventh try. The background was loud, and I could hear a woman crying hysterically. "Freya," he said quickly, "Violet is having a panic attack. I can't leave her right now. Whatever it is, we'll talk tonight." I gripped the phone. "Peter, my biopsy results came back. The doctor said..." He cut me off. "Hold on, Violet, stop crying, I'm right here." "Freya, what did you say? The signal is terrible. We'll talk when I get home." The line clicked dead. That night, he came home completely exhausted and fell asleep on the living room sofa. His phone was lying face-up on the coffee table. The screen lit up. It was a text from Violet: Peter, thank you so much for being there for me today. You must be exhausted. Go straight to sleep. Goodnight. She attached a little kissing emoji. I stood behind the sofa, staring at that message for a very long time. Then I walked into the study, folded up my pathology report, and slipped it into the back of my journal. I never brought it up again. After leaving the wedding planner's office, I went to Peter's corporate headquarters. My stomach clamped down again. Leaning against the wall of the elevator, I swallowed two more painkillers. The receptionist smiled brightly when she saw me. "Mrs. Prescott! The boss is in a meeting right now. Do you want me to let him know you're here?" I placed a thick manila envelope on her desk. "No need. Just give this to him." She looked confused. "You aren't going to wait for him?" "No." As I walked past Peter's corner office, the heavy oak door was slightly ajar. I could hear Violet's voice coming through the speakerphone. "Peter, this penthouse is gorgeous. It even has an en-suite bathroom in the guest room. It'll be so convenient when I come crash at your place." Peter's deep voice replied, "Show it to Freya first. If she likes it, we'll buy it." Violet let out a bubbly laugh. "Are you kidding? Freya is going to love whatever you give her. You could put her in a studio apartment in the slums and she would still think you were treating her like a queen." "Don't talk about her like that," Peter said softly. But there was absolutely no anger in his voice. Violet asked, "So we're going with the invitation design I approved this morning? You don't think Freya is going to suddenly throw a fit and change her mind?" Peter chuckled. "What is she going to do?" "The wedding is in two weeks. She might pout for a couple of days, but she'll get over it." Violet sounded relieved. "I really thought she was actually mad at me today." "She isn't that kind of person." His voice was overflowing with absolute certainty. "She would never leave me." Standing in the hallway, I felt an overwhelming urge to laugh. It wasn't that he didn't know how much I loved him. He knew it perfectly. That was exactly why my compromises, my silence, and my suffering were the foundation of his arrogance. He was absolutely certain I would never walk away. He was certain that no matter how many times he turned his back on me to run to Violet, I would always be standing in the exact same spot, waiting for him. Just like the night my grandmother was dying. When he turned the car around, he didn't even glance at me in the passenger seat. Because he knew I would cover for him. He knew I would make excuses to my family and swallow every ounce of my own humiliation to protect his image. I didn't stay to listen to the rest of the call. I turned around and walked back to the elevator. When I reached the ground floor lobby, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Peter. What is the meaning of the security badge and the house keys? I didn't reply. A second message came through. Freya, what kind of game are you playing now? Then a third. The wedding is in two weeks. Stop acting like a child and embarrassing us. I stared at the screen, feeling an unbearable exhaustion settling into my bones. I turned off my phone, hailed a cab, and went back to the apartment. When Peter's executive meeting ended, the receptionist walked into his office and handed him the manila envelope. "Mr. Prescott, Miss Davis dropped this off earlier and asked me to give it to you." Peter opened the flap and looked inside. He frowned deeply. Violet, who was sitting on the sofa across from his desk, asked softly, "Did I do something wrong? Is Freya upset with me again?" Peter tossed the envelope into his desk drawer. "She's just throwing a tantrum." "She wouldn't even cancel a dinner reservation without asking me. Where is she going to go?" He picked up his phone and typed a message to Freya. I'm coming home tonight. We are going to sit down and talk. A few minutes later, he added one more text. Enough is enough. Drop the act. No reply. Peter stared at the chat log. He felt a flicker of annoyance, but zero panic. Every single time they fought in the past, Freya was always the one to apologize first. This time would be no different. Violet tilted her head. "Peter, are we still going to that omakase place tonight?" Peter checked his Rolex. "Yes." "I'll take you back to your apartment after dinner, and then I'll go deal with her." Violet giggled. "Won't she be even more furious if you're late?" Peter grabbed his suit jacket, his tone completely nonchalant. "She has been obsessed with me for seven years. She isn't actually mad." "She can't live without me." When I got back to the apartment, I started packing. I had lived in this place for four years, but everything that truly belonged to me fit into a single suitcase. I packed my passport, my medical records, and a few sweaters. When I opened the nightstand drawer, I saw the red envelope my grandmother had prepared for Peter. The red paper was deeply creased from how tightly she had been holding it. I put it in my bag. While clearing out the closet, my hand brushed against a blush-pink silk robe. Embroidered on the inside collar were two cursive initials. C.N. Claire Nan. Violet. I stared at those two letters for a very long time. Suddenly, the pain stopped. Not the burning in my stomach. But the place where my heart was. It had finally gone completely numb. The place I thought was my home had always made room for someone else. It just didn't have room for me. I didn't take a picture. I didn't draft an angry text. I just carefully folded the silk robe and placed it perfectly in the center of the mattress. Then I took all of Peter's tailored shirts off their hangers and folded them neatly next to it. My phone rang. It was the landlord. "Hey Freya, you really terminating the lease today? Aren't you and Peter getting married next week?" "The wedding is off," I said quietly. The landlord was silent for a moment. "Alright. Just drop the keys in the mailbox." I hung up the phone and walked out, dropping the spare key into the metal slot. By the time I dragged my suitcase out of the lobby, the sun had already set. The gardenia bushes by the front gate were in full bloom. My grandmother loved gardenias. She used to tell me that a person should live like a gardenia. You don't have to fight for attention, but you should always know your own worth. But I had spent seven years waiting. And all I got was her dying with a broken heart. I gripped the handle of my suitcase and flagged down a taxi. The driver looked in the rearview mirror. "Where to?" I stared out the window into the dark city streets. "The train station."
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