The seamstress pulled the corset strings tight. The white silk hugged my ribs. I looked in the massive floor-to-ceiling mirror. I didn't see a bride. I saw a ghost wrapped in expensive tulle.

"It fits perfectly, Miss Simpson," the seamstress smiled. She adjusted the delicate lace on my shoulders.

I stared blankly at my reflection. I should have felt excited. I should have felt bubbles in my chest. Instead, I felt absolutely nothing. My phone sat on the velvet chair behind me. The hidden folder inside it felt heavier than the gown. The image of Catalina in black lace, with Eddie asleep behind her, was burned into my retinas.

My father, Arthur, would have bought me this entire boutique if I asked. He commanded battalions. He had limitless resources. But I had kept all of that hidden. I wanted to be a normal bride for the man I loved. I had spent ten years shrinking myself so Eddie could feel big.

I didn't cry. I didn't shake. The ten years of love I had for Eddie were gone. They died at two in the morning when I saved that photo. Now, I just needed to bury the remains.

"Should we wait for your fiancé?" the seamstress asked gently. "He is an hour late."

"No," I said quietly. "Take it off, please."

Just as she unhooked the first button, the boutique door chimed. Eddie walked in. He was sixty-five minutes late. His hair was messy. His jaw was tight. He didn't look breathless from running. He looked irritated.

"Traffic was a nightmare," he muttered. He didn't apologize. He didn't even look at the dress. He just slumped into the velvet chair next to my purse.

"It's fine," I said flatly.

He looked up at my tone. He frowned and stood up. He walked over to me. "You look nice," he offered lazily. He leaned in to kiss my cheek.

I didn't step back, but I turned my head slightly. His lips brushed my jaw. And then the smell hit me.

It was heavy. Floral. Sickly sweet. It was Catalina’s signature perfume. The exact same scent that hung in my bathroom like toxic gas. It clung to his shirt collar. It was woven into the fabric of his jacket. It was the smell of my own guest bedroom being used to mock me.

My stomach didn't drop. My chest didn't ache. My spine just turned to steel.

"Let me change," I said. My voice was eerily calm. "We're going to the restaurant on 5th Avenue. We need to talk."

Eddie sighed loudly. "Can we just eat? I have a headache."

"We will eat," I replied. "And we will talk."

Twenty minutes later, we were in his car. The sky outside was a dull, bruised purple. A light drizzle began to fall. The wipers scraped harshly against the glass. The leather seats felt cold. The silence between us was thick and suffocating. I kept my eyes on the passing streetlights. I was mentally rehearsing the end of our relationship. No yelling. No tears. Just a clean, sharp cut.

Then, his phone rang.

The harsh ringtone shattered the quiet. The screen on the dashboard mount lit up. The name *Baby* flashed in bright white letters.

Eddie cursed under his breath. He aggressively tapped the screen and put it on speakerphone.

"Cat, I told you I'm busy right now," he snapped. He sounded annoyed, but there was no real bite to his words.

"You left without saying goodbye," Catalina's breathy, trembling voice filled the enclosed car. "I woke up and you were just gone, Eddie. My chest hurts. I can't breathe. The walls are closing in."

"I had to go to Regina's fitting," he said. He gripped the steering wheel tight. His knuckles turned white. He didn't even glance at me.

"You promised you'd stay until my therapist called," she whimpered. A soft, theatrical sob echoed through the speakers. "I'm looking at the pill bottle, Eddie. I just feel so empty."

"Cat, stop it. Don't touch the pills." His voice shifted instantly. The annoyance vanished. The gentle, coaxing tone returned. The same tone he used in my hallway. The same tone he used in the dark last night. "Just put the bottle down. Breathe for me, okay?"

"I need you," she cried. "She doesn't need you like I do. She's so cold to you."

Eddie's jaw clenched. "Cat, you're on speaker."

There was a sharp gasp on the other end. Then, silence. But she didn't hang up. She was waiting. She wanted to hear my reaction. She wanted me to scream at him. She wanted a fight to prove I was the unstable one.

I didn't give it to her.

I sat perfectly still in the passenger seat. I looked at Eddie's panicked profile. I smelled her perfume radiating from his clothes. I listened to his desperate, enabling breaths.

"Regina, I'm sorry," Eddie stammered, finally looking at me. "She's just having an episode. You know how her depression gets."

"Keep driving," I said softly. I didn't look at him. I just stared straight ahead at the dark, wet road. "The reservation is at seven."

Eddie swallowed hard. He turned his eyes back to the road. He kept the phone connected. For the next ten minutes, the only sounds in the car were the rhythmic scrape of the wipers and Catalina's soft, deliberate breathing through the speaker.

I let her listen. I let him sweat. I was watching a dead man drive. And I was finally ready to walk away.

The rain was coming down in thick, heavy sheets by the time Eddie pulled the car up to the restaurant on 5th Avenue. A valet rushed out with a large black umbrella. Eddie didn't wait for me. He tossed the keys to the valet and jogged inside, his eyes glued to his phone screen.

I stepped out slowly. I let the cold rain hit my face for a second. It felt clean.

Inside, the restaurant was dim and warm. It smelled of roasted garlic, expensive leather, and burning wax. The maître d' led us to a secluded corner booth. The soft hum of jazz and clinking crystal surrounded us. It was a beautiful place. But the cheap, heavy floral perfume still clinging to Eddie’s jacket ruined it.

Eddie slid into the booth and immediately picked up the menu. He didn't look at me. He just rubbed his temples.

“Look, about the car ride,” he started. His voice was a low, hurried rush. He sounded annoyed, not apologetic. “Cat is just going through a lot right now. Her therapist changed her medication. I know it’s frustrating, but you have to understand my position here.”

“Eddie,” I said.

My voice was very soft. But it cut through his rambling like a sharp knife.

He stopped talking. He finally lowered the menu and looked at me.

“We want different things,” I said. I folded my hands neatly on the white tablecloth. They were perfectly steady. My heart wasn't racing. “This isn't working anymore. I think it's best we end the engagement.”

I didn't yell. I didn't cry. I didn't list his faults. I just stated a fact. It was a clean, precise cut.

Eddie froze. The ambient noise of the restaurant seemed to vanish. The jazz music faded into a dull buzz.

He stared at me for a long moment. I watched his face closely. I looked for a flash of heartbreak. I looked for the boy from ten years ago. But he wasn't there.

Instead, a dark red flush crept up his neck. His jaw tightened so hard I could see the muscle twitch. His eyes narrowed into thin, hard slits. He didn't look devastated. He looked deeply insulted.

“Excuse me?” he scoffed. He dropped the menu onto the table. It made a loud smack. “Are you serious right now, Regina?”

“I am.”

“Over a phone call?” He leaned forward. His voice dropped into a harsh, defensive hiss. “You're throwing away a ten-year relationship because my sick ex-girlfriend had a panic attack in the car? Do you hear how crazy that sounds?”

He was trying to spin it. He was trying to make me the villain. It was his favorite game.

“It's not just the phone call,” I replied evenly. “It's the disrespect. It's the lies. We're done, Eddie.”

“Disrespect?” He let out a short, bitter laugh. He glanced around quickly to see if anyone at the nearby tables was watching us. His ego was bleeding, not his heart. “I give you everything. I put up with your cold, demanding attitude. I let you plan this massive, expensive wedding. And you sit here, acting like you're so much better than me.”

He pointed a finger at me across the table. His knuckles were bone white.

“You don't get to just walk away because things aren't perfect,” he snapped. The vein in his forehead bulged. “You're just jealous. You're jealous because Cat actually needs me. She's vulnerable. And you're too damn proud to ever need anyone.”

I looked at him. I looked at the man I had protected for a decade. The man I had hidden my family's immense wealth and military power for, just so he wouldn't feel small.

He was small anyway.

“I don't need you, Eddie,” I said quietly. “That's the point. I loved you. But I don't love you anymore.”

His mouth dropped open. His face twisted into an ugly, hateful snarl. He gripped the edge of the table, leaning in, pulling a breath to tear into me.

Before he could get a single word out, a massive crash echoed through the dining room.

The heavy mahogany doors at the front of the restaurant slammed open. They hit the walls with a violent, echoing thud. Several diners gasped loudly. A waiter dropped a tray of water glasses. The glass shattered across the floor.

Eddie whipped his head around. I didn't have to guess who it was. The heavy, toxic scent of her perfume seemed to arrive before she did.

Catalina stood in the doorway.

She was soaking wet from the storm outside. Her cream silk blouse clung tightly to her skin. Her perfect blowout was ruined, the hair plastered in dark, wet streaks across her face and neck. But it was her eyes that caught the dim restaurant light. They were wide, wild, and completely manic.

Her makeup was a disaster. Dark mascara ran down her cheeks like thick black tears. She held her phone tightly in one hand. The screen glowed brightly in the dim room. The GPS map was still open and tracking. She had followed his phone. She had tracked us here.

“Miss, you can't come in here like—” the maître d' started, rushing forward with his hands raised.

Catalina shoved past him so hard he stumbled into a nearby table. She didn't even look at the staff. She didn't care about the expensive decor or the shocked patrons staring at her.

Her chest heaved with ragged, dramatic breaths. She scanned the room like a starving predator. Then, her gaze snapped to our corner booth.

She didn't look at Eddie. Her manic, smeared eyes locked directly onto me.

The corners of her mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile. It was a promise of violence.

She marched toward us. Her wet heels slapped loudly and rapidly against the polished hardwood floor, closing the distance.