The first time I stayed over at Mishka’s place, I found his stepsister wearing his t-shirt as a nightgown. I told him then and there: that was a line I wouldn't let anyone cross. To keep the peace, he sent her to study abroad. Five years later, on the eve of our wedding, a drunk Mishka posted a cryptic message to his social media. The tragedy is, all your regrets are tied to me. It was there for only a few seconds before it vanished. I stared at the empty space on my screen for a long moment, then opened the county clerk’s website and canceled our marriage license appointment. If his heart wasn’t in it, then I didn’t want the man, either. … 1 At 3 AM, Mishka sobered up. Babe, love you. I was wide awake when his text came through. Someone once said the difference between “I love you” and “love you” isn’t the “I.” It’s the difference between a sincere confession and a hollow habit. Maybe, for Mishka, being with me was just that. A habit. I tossed my phone aside and acted as if nothing had happened. I went through with the wedding the next day. Not because I had any hope left, but because I wanted to see, with my own eyes, what was really going on in his head. He was on one knee before me, the three-carat diamond on the ring he held out so brilliant it made the world go hazy. Then, a sharp, commanding voice cut through the air. “Mishka Thorne, you are not allowed to get married!” He didn’t seem surprised. Just… tired. He let out a weary sigh. Isabelle Vance stood at the edge of the manicured lawn, a vision in a scarlet dress, the hem billowing in the breeze. All eyes were on her. “Isabelle, don’t make a scene,” Mishka said, his brow furrowed. As he spoke, his hand, which had been holding mine, slipped away. “This is the most important day of my life. This isn't one of our childhood games.” “The necklace you gave me for my 18th birthday,” she declared, her voice ringing with drama. “You said if I ever brought it to you, you’d grant me any request, no matter what.” “My request is this: leave her. And come with me.” She ripped the necklace from her throat and threw it onto the grass at his feet. Mishka scrambled to pick it up. As his fingers closed around the pendant, his face darkened. “Do you really have to do this?” From the crowd of guests, Mishka’s father shot to his feet, his face purple with rage. “This is absurd! Mishka, Isabelle, whatever this is, you can settle it at home! Officiant, continue the ceremony!” But Mishka just stood there, clutching the necklace, before pocketing it. He looked at his father and mumbled a quiet, “I’m sorry.” A wave of shocked murmurs swept through the guests. “What is happening? Is he actually leaving?” “Ugh, blended families are always a mess. Those two have been at each other’s throats since they were kids. But Isabelle is being completely out of line, deliberately ruining her brother’s wedding.” “That poor bride. How humiliating. I can’t even imagine.” Mishka turned to me, his eyes swimming with guilt. “Laila, forgive me. I swear, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll give you an even grander wedding.” “Mishka.” My voice was quiet, but it carried, and the entire venue fell silent. “I don’t want ‘later.’ I want today. If you walk away now, we’re over.” He stared at me, a flicker of desperation in his eyes. He squeezed them shut, a pained expression on his face. When he opened them, all he could offer were two gut-wrenching words. “I’m sorry.” Isabelle let out a short, triumphant laugh. “Don’t be too sad, Laila. I was just doing you a favor, helping you see the kind of man you were about to marry.” Her voice dripped with mock pity. “See? You don’t mean that much to him after all. So easy to cast aside.” “Shut up!” Mishka roared, spinning on her. “I agreed to go with you. Stop hurting her.” Isabelle just sniffed, turned on her heel, and stalked away. Mishka followed her without a single glance back. “You ungrateful son!” His father’s furious shout was followed by the sound of a champagne bottle shattering against the stone path. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I stood on that stage, a brittle smile plastered on my face, and addressed our guests. “Well, you’re all here. Please, eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves.” I played the gracious host, as if I weren’t the one who had just been publicly abandoned at the altar. But inside, my heart was a ruin. 2 Once the guests were seated, I finally escaped to the dressing room. I pulled off my veil, then reached for my earrings, but my hands were shaking too violently. “Here, sweetie. Let me.” My mother had followed me in without me noticing. She gently unfastened the diamond studs and then began to remove my makeup with a soft cloth. “Oh, my child,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “You’ve been through so much.” I noticed new streaks of silver in her hair. They blurred before my eyes, the white strands bleeding into an encroaching darkness until my world went completely black. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. A doctor was speaking, his mouth moving, but it took a long moment for the sound to register. “She’s fine. Just exhaustion and extreme stress. But you’ll need to focus on her nutrition from now on. After all, she’s eating for two now.” A cold dread washed over me. My hand instinctively clenched the bedsheet. The child Mishka had wanted for so long… had decided to arrive now. Of all times. I met my mother’s gaze. Her eyes were filled with a profound, aching pity. “Laila, don’t overthink things. Just rest. You need to take care of yourself.” I pushed myself up into a sitting position. “Where’s Mishka?” My mom hesitated. “His phone’s going straight to voicemail. His family is out looking for him.” My father stood by the window, his face a mask of cold fury, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. A titan of the business world, a man respected throughout the city, he had never suffered such a public humiliation. My heart ached for him. Suddenly, my phone rang, Mishka’s name lighting up the screen. My mother shot me a look, then gently pulled my father out of the room. I answered. “Laila, what happened today was all my fault,” he began, his voice earnest. “Blame me, hate me, do whatever you need to do. But please, don't take it out on Isabelle, okay?” His voice was a knife in my chest, stealing my breath. He wasn’t worried about how I was, how much pain I was in. He didn’t care about the catastrophic mess he’d left me to clean up. His first thought, his first concern, was protecting Isabelle. My lips moved, but all I could manage was a weak, hollow, “Okay.” “She’s had a hard time abroad,” he continued, oblivious. “She’s angry with me, and she has every right to be. I owe her so much.” He sounded anxious now. “Laila, just give me some time. I’ll sort this out, I swear. And then, I’ll give you the wedding you deserve. A real one. Okay?” It wasn’t the wedding I couldn’t wait for. It was the way he’d left, so decisively, as if I meant nothing at all. A single hot tear slid down my cheek. “Mishka,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Are you… are you hiding something from me?” Silence. A sob caught in my throat. “Have your feelings for me changed?” “What? No, of course not!” he said, a little too quickly. “Laila, don’t think like that. Please, just trust me.” His hesitation had already told me everything. I ended the call without another word. A few days ago, I’d overheard one of Mishka’s friends ask him, “Did you know Isabelle is coming back? You don’t think she’s going to try and crash the wedding, do you?” Mishka had been so sure of himself then. “I would never let Laila get hurt.” I had trusted him. I believed he would handle it. I had never imagined I could lose so completely. A few minutes later, a message came through from Mishka’s assistant. Ms. Reed, Mr. Thorne would like to transfer ownership of his art gallery in Florence to your name. Please let me know when you would be available to sign the contract. A wave of desolation washed over me. Was this it? Was he trying to buy his way out of his guilt? That night, a video arrived from Isabelle. My curiosity got the better of me. I opened it. In the murky light of a dive bar, Mishka was slumped over a table, completely wasted. Isabelle pushed a bottle of red wine in front of him. “If you want my forgiveness,” her voice purred, “get on your knees and drink this whole bottle.” Mishka staggered to his feet and then collapsed onto his knees before her, slurring, “My fault… Forgive me, Izzy…” He fumbled for the bottle, his hands grasping at empty air. Isabelle snatched the bottle, grabbed his chin with one hand, and brutally forced the neck of the bottle into his mouth, pouring the wine down his throat. Dark red liquid streamed from the corners of his mouth, staining his shirt, his neck. He choked, sputtering, and fell to the floor in a fit of violent coughing. I closed the video, my hand trembling. A new message popped up. See? He’s like a pathetic little dog on a leash for me. The phone slipped from my grasp and hit the floor. The screen spiderwebbed with cracks. To earn her forgiveness, he would sacrifice his last shred of dignity. I didn’t sleep all night. Five years of memories played on a loop in my mind. Embracing under a shower of cherry blossoms, him whispering he wished that moment could last forever. The first snow of the year, him changing his flight to come home early, a steaming pot of hot pot waiting for me the moment I walked in the door. All those beautiful moments, now just shattered fragments of a life that was no longer mine. The next morning, the wedding planner called. “Ms. Reed? Just confirming the details. Mr. Thorne booked our videographer and makeup artist for your marriage license appointment next Wednesday morning. Is that correct?” I stared out the window, my voice flat. “I’m sorry. That won’t be necessary.” “Oh,” she said, confused. “But Mr. Thorne just made the booking yesterday…” “It’s been canceled.” I couldn’t understand him. He was groveling at Isabelle’s feet, yet he was still planning to marry me. What did he think I was? A convenient cover? A bandage for his reputation? I was just leaving the hospital wing when I ran straight into him in the emergency room lobby. His clothes were disheveled, and a dark, dried patch of blood stained his cuff. A thick gauze bandage was wrapped around his forearm. His eyes, when they met mine, were hard. “What are you, a bloodhound? How did you track me here so fast? This has nothing to do with you. Stay out of it.” I took a deep breath. “I’m not here for you.” A flicker of panic crossed his face, and he moved to block my path. “Don’t you dare go near Isabelle. Me getting hurt has nothing to do with her.” Isabelle, who was standing behind him without a scratch on her, folded her arms with a smirk. “That’s right. It has nothing to do with me. He’s the one who started it.” Two police officers motioned for them to follow, and Mishka trudged after them, his head down. As Isabelle passed me, she leaned in, her voice a triumphant whisper. “He’d die for me. Would he do that for you?” My body went rigid, as if I’d been nailed to the floor. Isabelle’s smirk widened into a grin. They hadn’t gone far when my phone shrieked. It was someone from Mishka’s company PR department, her voice an octave higher with panic. “Ms. Reed, there’s a video of Mr. Thorne beating up Ethan Cole going viral, and I can’t reach him…” “Ethan Cole?” “Yes. Isabelle’s ex-boyfriend. The one she dated for years while she was abroad.” The ground seemed to tilt beneath my feet. Mishka was always so calm, so controlled. Now he was getting into brawls over her, like a jealous teenager. So, he could be reckless. He could throw everything away. Just not for me. “Ms. Reed? What should we do? We’re in the middle of a critical negotiation. Any bad press right now could be disastrous…” A roaring filled my ears. “If you can’t reach Mishka, call his father. Someone from the Thorne family needs to handle this.” I hung up, the buzzing in my head threatening to swallow me whole. I turned around, walked back into the hospital, and went straight to the obstetrics and gynecology department to schedule a medical abortion.
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