He Flew Her To Paris For Snow

Dora's POV: Peterson Jones lived by one ironclad rule: profit came first. Always. He measured everything in his life by cold, hard ROI. Once, I was stuck at work in a torrential downpour. He told me driving over to pick me up would take too much time, so he never came. Another time, I had a fever that wouldn't break. He said popping pills was more efficient than wasting time at the hospital, then told me to keep working overtime. Even the reason we got together was because he said I was the best match for him in terms of commercial value. On the day we were supposed to try on wedding dresses, I sat waiting in the bridal shop for six hours. I called him twenty-eight times. No answer. On the twenty-ninth call, he finally picked up. His cold, detached voice drifted through the line. "This merger is pulling in three hundred million in profit. We can reschedule the fitting for another day." He hung up right after. Before I could even process what he'd just said, a notification pinged on my phone. It was a video post from Peterson's ex. She was standing on a street in Paris, grinning like she had the whole world. The caption was: Spur-of-the-moment trip to Paris to see the snow, and it actually happened. Thank you for ditching a three-hundred-million-dollar deal just to come with me. The camera panned to the side, and I recognized Peterson's face immediately. He was smiling too. Then he left a comment. Peterson: [As long as it makes you happy, this investment is more than worth it.] A bitter, absurd wave of emotion washed over me, thick enough to choke on. Six hours waiting for a wedding dress fitting? That was a waste of time in his book. Flying halfway across the world to see snow? That was a worthwhile investment. Fine. If every minute, every choice is measured by return on investment, then I'm walking away from this so-called relationship. It's a bad investment. And I'm cutting my losses. ***** Peterson didn't come home until well after midnight. I was still sitting in the living room when he walked through the door. He loosened his tie, spotted me on the couch, and smiled. "I told you not to wait." Before I could answer, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around me. Then he handed me a large shopping bag. "I remembered you saying you liked handbags." He dropped it into my lap. "Consider these a gift." Inside were dozens of designer bags from the latest collections. At first glance, it looked extravagant. Then I noticed the details. The dust bags were wrinkled and torn. Some of the hardware had come loose. The packaging was crushed, as if someone had thrown everything in without a second thought. I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat. Because half an hour earlier, Cindy had posted again. And unlike me, she had received something carefully chosen. A one-of-a-kind haute couture handbag. The kind sold only through private auction. Her caption read: Someone flew me across the world to see the snow and still managed to find me this. He's seriously checking every box. The comments were already exploding. A: [Holy s**t. That bag is worth three times retail now.] B: [No wonder Peterson was asking about the auction this morning. He was hunting it down for Cindy.] C: [My favorite couple is finally winning!] I scrolled past the post. At the very bottom of Peterson's enormous gift bag was a handbag I'd wanted for years. I recognized it instantly. My heart gave a stupid little flutter before I noticed the broken clasp. The leather was scratched. The clasp hung crookedly from one side. Peterson noticed my expression. "What's wrong?" He picked up the bag, inspected it for a second, then set it on the coffee table. "Easy fix." He opened a drawer and started searching. A moment later, he pulled out a tube of superglue. "Just glue it back on. No one will notice once you're carrying it." I stared at him. "And don't start sulking because you didn't get the limited edition again." My fingers tightened around the edge of the couch. A month ago, I'd dragged him into the boutique because there was only one left. I'd been so excited I'd practically bounced through the door. "Please," I'd begged, looping my arm through his. "Just this once. I really love it." Peterson hadn't even looked up from his phone. "That bag is ridiculously overpriced." "But there's only one left." "That doesn't make it worth the money." "The markup isn't that bad." He'd finally looked at me then. "No. I'm not paying three times what something is worth just because the brand put a logo on it." I laughed awkwardly at the time. I'd told myself he was just being practical. Now, watching him smear glue over the broken clasp of the same bag, I almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. He pressed the pieces together with his thumb. "There. Good as new." It wasn't. The clasp was crooked. Glue had seeped onto the leather. And somehow, that tiny broken bag felt like the perfect summary of our entire relationship. I looked at him. "We're getting married soon." He glanced up. "When are you planning to tell people we're together?" His hand stopped. Only for a second. Then he went back to the bag. "My mom hasn't been doing well." His voice was casual. "Let's wait until she's feeling better." I almost smiled. Of course. His mother adored Cindy. She had never accepted that their relationship was over. Peterson had been afraid that announcing us would hurt her, so he'd kept us a secret. For five years. Five years of sneaking around. Five years of excuses. Five years of being introduced to his mother as his "assistant" instead of the woman he planned to marry. "It's not like we're doing anything wrong," he continued. "We're together. That's what matters." He shrugged. "There's no reason to make some huge public announcement before we're married. We'll tell everyone when the time is right." When the time is right. I'd heard that line so many times I'd stopped counting. Apparently, the right time had never arrived. But something had changed tonight. For the first time, I didn't want to wait for it. Peterson finished with the bag and pushed it toward me. He looked almost pleased with himself. "What's with that expression?" He nudged the bag closer. "You got the handbag you wanted, didn't you?" I said nothing. He frowned. "Is this about the wedding dress appointment?" He sighed. "Seriously? It's not a big deal." He moved closer on the couch. "We'll book another appointment. If there's no availability, I'll pay for a private fitting." His suit brushed against mine. The faint scent of his cologne filled the space between us. For years, that smell had meant home. Tonight, it made me want to leave. I stood. "I need a shower." I walked toward the hallway before he could say anything else. Behind me, I heard him laugh softly. Then the bathroom door closed. I leaned against it and finally let myself breathe. My phone buzzed in my hand. I looked down and saw a notification. Peterson liked Cindy's post. I stared at the screen when another notification appeared. And another. My eyes burned. A tear slipped down my cheek and landed on the screen. For years, I'd held everything together. Every disappointment. Every excuse. Every broken promise. Every time I'd swallowed my hurt and told myself that loving him meant understanding him. But standing there alone in the bathroom, I finally understood something. The thread I'd been holding onto for five years had never been strong. I'd simply been too afraid to let go. Tonight, I finally did. And for the first time in five years, I wasn't waiting for Peterson anymore.