He Gave Her My Wedding, I Divorced Him

Chapter 2

It was my first time in Nico's private lounge, and I was stunned.

The curtains and bedsheets were ones I'd picked out myself.

Travel itineraries were posted on the wall—the honeymoon route we had planned together.

His-and-hers cups sat in the bathroom.

The walk-in closet was packed with Vivienne's clothes—all different styles, each one handpicked by Nico.

He was so attentive that he put garment bags on each piece, and my heart ached.

I had once mentioned wanting to build a walk-in closet in our future home.

Back then, he used his demanding flight schedule as an excuse, saying he had no extra time to pick out furniture.

But now, the exact same setup had been completely recreated here.

So it wasn't that he had no time to plan a home.

It was just that the person he wanted to build a home with had never been me.

A noise came from outside the door, and I hid in the bathroom.

A sharp c***k rang out.

Vivienne suddenly raised her hand and slapped Nico hard across the face. "Are you crazy?!" she shouted.

He clutched her hand tightly against his chest and replied, "I'm not." Then he added, "Today, when she asked what we were doing, I really wanted to tell her. I don't love her anymore."

Then came the sound of a chair scraping harshly backward against the floor.

Vivienne's voice choked with sobs, panic and disbelief. "We absolutely cannot betray Rosalie! Her wedding is in just a few days," she said.

Nico let out a low, bitter laugh. "Haven't we been betraying her ever since that rainy night three years ago?" he asked. "I'm just tired. I don't want to lie to her anymore. Is that all I am to you now—just an obligation as your brother-in-law?"

A suffocating silence fell.

Vivienne's face was deathly pale, her eyes brimming with tears. "How can you think that? Rosalie has been so good to us," she said. "She gave up her opportunity to study in Brindlewood for me, just because I was sick and needed someone to take care of me then. She worked three jobs to put you through your last two years of school, and she couldn't even bring herself to buy a new coat."

I heard Nico's soft sigh, and he was probably wiping away the tears from the corners of her eyes. He said, "I will make it up to her. But keeping it from her is cruel not only to her, but also to us."

Unable to hold myself together any longer, I let the tears fall and curled up on the cold floor.

Outside, Nico's gentle voice said, "Alright, don't cry. Your favorite diamond necklace."

Vivienne let out a cry of surprise, her voice choked with sobs. "An heirloom necklace worth millions? For me?" she exclaimed.

He fastened it around her neck himself, the diamond at her throat dazzling brilliantly. "I remember you said you liked this necklace on the model in the magazine," he said.

I gripped the patched cuff of my sleeve.

He was willing to buy jewelry worth millions for Vivienne.

Yet he felt that even spending a few hundred dollars on me wasn't worth it.

On my birthday last year, I questioned him, asking why Vivienne got a BMW while I only got a bouquet of flowers. He said, "People are different. She needs to be pampered; you don't."

So I didn't deserve to be treated well?

My nails dug deeply into my palm, drawing blood.

But I didn't feel any pain at all.

One was my own sister, to whom I'd given everything.

The other was Nico, my partner of five years, the man with whom I was finally about to hold our wedding.

When they hid here together, lost in each other, did they ever think of me, even for a moment?

A long while later, the sounds outside finally died away.

I wandered the streets, utterly lost.

The summer night's rain came without warning, soaking me through and chilling me to the bone.

I suddenly recalled that rainy night three years ago when Nico had brought my runaway sister back.

The man who had once been so cold to me suddenly changed after that.

It turned out he felt guilty toward her, worried she would be eaten up by guilt.

Since that was the case, I chose to step aside.

I walked into a jewelry store. Dazed, I paused for a moment, then slipped the ring from my ring finger.

I asked, "Hello, do you buy back rings from five years ago?"

The clerk took the ring and examined it carefully, sounding uncomfortable. She said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but this is not an authentic piece from our brand."

My head began to buzz.

I had worn it every day for five years. It was Nico's promise meant only for me.

I knew the brand's slogan by heart: A man can only customize one ring in his lifetime, for one person alone.

I struggled to keep my voice steady. "Could there be a mistake in the appraisal?" I asked.

The clerk checked for a moment and spoke softly. "A custom order was indeed placed under that name, but you weren't the recipient," she said.