I was standing in the bathroom of the Riverstone Hotel, staring at a stranger in the mirror. My lip was split, there was blood on my teeth, and my scalp throbbed where clumps of hair had been yanked out. My dress—white satin, sleeveless, stupidly
The attendant arrived with a polished smile. “Yes, sir?” “There has to be another seat. This one’s… cramped,” Richard said, throwing a glance at the woman beside him. “Some of us actually paid for this section.” The woman flushed and turned toward the window. “I’m sorry, sir,” the attendant replied. “It’s a full flight. There…
She looked up, startled. “Yes. I’m in 4A.” Richard blinked. “You’re sure?” She nodded, holding up her boarding pass with a shy smile. “Must’ve been some kind of mistake,” he muttered as he squeezed into 4B, visibly wincing as their arms touched. He rang the flight attendant button the moment he sat down.
A worn backpack sat at her feet. She looked out of place—like she’d gotten on the wrong flight. For illustrative purposes only Richard’s lips curled into a smirk. “Excuse me,” he said, tapping the woman’s shoulder. “I believe this is first class.”
Until he saw her. Seat 4A was already occupied by a woman whose size spilled slightly into his seat. She wore an oversized gray sweater and sweatpants, her frizzy hair hastily tied back
The first-class cabin was nearly full when Richard Dunham stepped on board, dragging his Italian leather carry-on behind him. He adjusted the cuff of his tailored suit and scanned the row for his seat—4B. A prime spot. He nodded in satisfaction.
Megan Langley. Daughter of the venture capitalist who practically owned the West Coast. “You’re leaving me for her?” “It’s not like that,” he lied. “This is better for both of us. You deserve someone… simpler.” He had the audacity to look sincere. Then, as if he hadn’t gutted me enough, he added, “Also, the ring….
He leaned back, a man unburdened. “It’s not you. It’s just… we’re heading in different directions. I’ve made important connections. Megan Langley and I are aligned in ways I didn’t see before.”
but to take it back. “I can’t marry you, Emily,” he said. Seven words that carved through me sharper than any scalpel I’d ever held. Our wedding was sixteen days away. “What?” I whispered.
My stomach plummeted. “What’s wrong?” I asked, forcing a smile. He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and placed the small velvet box on the table—not to give it to me,