Like a dream coming true. So happy I couldn't sleep the entire night.
Under the warm glow of the bedside lamp, I'd traced my fingers over it again and again, so carefully, like it might crumble if I held it too tight.
And now I was being told it was all fake.
The proposal. The confession. The months of tenderness and devotion.
All of it, an act.
I was nothing to him but a vessel to carry his and Kitty's child.
By the time Darren came out of the bathroom, I'd already put the laptop back in its place.
I watched him do what he always did, gently wiping my body down with a warm towel, attentive, caring.
And yet a bone-deep cold crawled over me. I flinched away before I could think.
Darren froze. He looked at me, confused.
"Jules, what's wrong? Is the towel too hot?"
I hugged my knees to my chest and shook my head, then asked softly:
"Do you ever lie to me?"
Guilt flickered through his eyes, gone in a flash. He let out a helpless little laugh.
"Silly girl. When have I ever been willing to lie to you? Not once, our whole lives."
He ruffled my hair.
"Didn't you stop calling me 'big brother' when you turned fifteen?"
"Good girl. From now on, call me 'husband.' Don't worry. Your husband will only ever love you and protect you."
If I hadn't seen those messages, I think I would have been moved.
But now, all I tasted was bitterness.
When I was eight, my parents died in an earthquake, crushed under rubble while saving Darren's life.
The Farleys took me in out of gratitude and raised me as their own.
And Darren had held me like something precious, promising he'd protect me forever.
But he hadn't just broken that promise. He'd woven this nightmare around me with his own hands.
After breakfast, I drove to my dessert shop.
I loved baking, and I'd never wanted to be a freeloader under the Farleys' roof. So after college, I'd used the money my parents left me to open this place.
When I arrived, a crowd had gathered out front.
I walked closer, puzzled, and found seven or eight thugs grinning as they sprayed graffiti across the door and floor-to-ceiling windows.
Words like homewrecker and whore in neon paint.
I frowned, about to speak.
An entire bucket of red paint came crashing down over my head.
Kitty stood there with one hand on her hip, sneering at me.
"Oh, look who showed up! Everyone, come see! This is the tramp who's been after my husband since she was a little girl."