Hazel POV:

I carefully placed the diagnosis report into a waterproof document bag, tucking it deep inside my suitcase. This, along with the star certificate and a few other carefully chosen mementos of his deception, would be my parting gift to Harden. A little surprise for him to find after I was gone.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was him. A wave of nausea washed over me, so potent I had to grip the edge of the dresser to steady myself. I let it ring.

It buzzed again, this time with a text.

Harden: Big night tonight. The official engagement party. Don' t be late.

The engagement party. A public spectacle to celebrate a lie. My fingers hovered over the screen, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. He was calling me to his own execution. Fine. If he wanted a show, I' d give him one he would never forget.

I zipped the suitcase and pushed it under the bed. I would deal with that later. For now, I had a role to play.

The ballroom of The Olympian Hotel was a sea of glittering chandeliers, champagne flutes, and Seattle' s elite. I moved through the crowd like a ghost, my simple navy dress a stark contrast to the couture gowns and flashing diamonds. Every smile felt like a mask, every polite greeting a line from a script I no longer believed in.

And then I saw her.

Krista was holding court by the grand piano, radiant in a crimson dress that clung to her like a second skin. She was the center of gravity in the room, pulling everyone into her orbit with her practiced laughter and sparkling eyes. She looked every bit the social media influencer she was, a perfect prop in her own curated life.

Harden was beside her, his body angled protectively towards her. He was murmuring something in her ear, and his hand rested on the small of her back, a gesture of casual intimacy that was a thousand times more genuine than any touch he had ever given me. He leaned in to adjust a stray strand of her blonde hair, his fingers brushing her cheek with a tenderness that made my stomach churn.

I saw it. That flicker of raw obsession in his eyes. The same look he used to give me.

"It' s a shame, isn' t it?" a woman next to me whispered to her companion, her voice dripping with pity. "Harden was so crazy about Krista back in the day. Everyone thought they' d get married. Then she just up and left for Europe."

"And poor Hazel Rogers steps in," the other woman replied, shaking her head. "She' s a sweet girl, but she' s just keeping the seat warm. You can see it in his eyes. He' s still completely gone on Krista."

The words were meant to be gossip, but they were daggers, each one hitting a fresh, open wound. It was true. I was the placeholder. The convenient, self-sacrificing stand-in.

I remembered the early days, after Krista had dumped him and fled the country. Harden had been a wreck. He' d told everyone they broke up amicably, that she needed to find herself. A lie. He was protecting her reputation, even then. When the press had started hounding me, asking if I was the other woman, the homewrecker, Harden had stood by silently, letting me take the heat. He never once defended me.

My heart, which I thought had already shattered, seemed to splinter into even smaller fragments.

Suddenly, Krista' s eyes met mine across the room. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her perfect lips. She excused herself and glided towards me, her movements sinuous and predatory.

"Hazel, darling!" she cooed, throwing her arms around me in a mock embrace. "I' m so, so happy for you and Harden. You deserve this."

Her perfume, a cloyingly sweet floral scent, enveloped me, making me feel sick. I stiffened, refusing to return the hug.

"Get off me, Krista," I said, my voice low and tight.

She pulled back, her blue eyes glistening with fake tears. She feigned a hurt expression, her lower lip trembling. "Hazel, I know we' ve had our differences, but tonight is your night. I just wanted to wish you well."

She reached out to touch my arm, and I instinctively recoiled. My revulsion was a physical force.

"Don' t touch me."

Krista' s eyes flashed with anger for a split second before the mask of sorrow slipped back into place. She stumbled backward, deliberately bumping into a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes.

The crash was spectacular.

Glass shattered, and golden champagne sprayed everywhere. Krista let out a theatrical shriek. I was closer to the waiter, and the top tier of the pyramid of glasses rained down on me. A sharp, searing pain shot through my arm as a shard of glass sliced deep into my forearm. Another piece caught my leg.

Krista, meanwhile, had a few drops of champagne on her expensive dress and a tiny, almost invisible scratch on her hand.

"Krista!"

Harden' s voice boomed across the ballroom. He was at her side in an instant, his face a mask of frantic concern. He bypassed me completely, his eyes fixed on Krista as if she were the only person in the room.

"Are you okay? Did you get hurt?" he asked, his voice filled with a panic I had never heard from him, not even when I' d been deathly ill from the bone marrow donation. He fussed over the microscopic scratch on her hand, pulling out a handkerchief to dab at it.

"I' m fine, Harden, really," Krista whimpered, leaning into him. "I' m just worried about Hazel. I think… I think she pushed me."

The accusation hung in the air, thick and poisonous.

Harden' s head snapped towards me. His warm whiskey eyes were now glacial, filled with a cold fury that froze me to the spot. I stood there, blood dripping from my arm onto the pristine white floor, a silent testament to the real injury.

"Hazel, what the hell is wrong with you?" he snarled.

"I didn't push her," I whispered, the words barely audible. My arm was throbbing, and a dizzying wave of blackness threatened to pull me under.

"Don' t lie to me! I saw you recoil from her. You' ve always hated her, haven' t you? You couldn' t even stand to let her be happy for us on our engagement night?"

"Harden, please, don' t be angry with her," Krista sobbed, pulling on his arm. "It was an accident. I' m sure she didn' t mean to. She' s just a little overwhelmed. You know how clumsy I am."

Her voice was a masterpiece of faux generosity, designed to make her look like a saint and me a monster.

"See?" Harden' s voice softened as he looked at Krista, his expression melting into pure adoration. "This is why I love you. You' re too kind, too forgiving."

He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. "Let' s get you cleaned up."

He turned, scooping a protesting Krista into his arms, and carried her away as if she were a precious, injured doll. He didn' t give me a second glance. He didn' t see the blood pooling at my feet, or the deep gash in my arm, or the utter devastation in my eyes.

He just left me there. Bleeding, broken, and utterly alone in a room full of strangers.

Hazel POV:

The clinic' s fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile, unforgiving glare on the neat row of stitches marching across my forearm. The doctor, a young resident with tired eyes, carefully wrapped a white bandage around the wound.

"That' s a nasty cut," he said, his voice gentle. "Are you here alone? Is there family I can call for you?"

Family. The word hung in the air between us. Did I have a family? A fiancé who had just accused me of assault and abandoned me to carry his mistress to safety? A stepsister who had orchestrated my public humiliation? My only real family was Jakobe, lying in a hospital bed miles away, unaware of the fresh hell his sister had just walked through.

I couldn't form a reply. A lump formed in my throat, thick and suffocating.

Just as the silence became unbearable, a voice cut through the stuffy air of the examination room.

"Hazel."

I flinched. Harden stood in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the exit. He was holding a small paper bag from the pharmacy, his face a carefully constructed mask of concern.

The young doctor' s face lit up. "Oh, wonderful, you' re here. She gave us quite a scare." He turned to me, his smile congratulatory. "You have a very caring fiancé, Ms. Rogers. He was frantic when he called."

My stomach twisted into a knot of pure acid. Caring. Frantic. The words were a mockery.

Harden walked towards me, his gaze softening as he looked at my bandaged arm. "Let' s get you home."

The drive back to the waterfront condo we shared was suffocating. I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of indifferent color. Krista was in the passenger seat, a place that had always, exclusively, been mine. Harden had insisted on it, claiming her minor scratch might get infected if she sat in the back.

She had already changed into one of my cashmere sweaters, which was two sizes too big for her but served its purpose. It made her look small, fragile, and victimized.

"You know, Hazel," Krista said, her voice laced with a triumphant little hum as she examined her perfectly manicured nails. "This seat is so much more comfortable than the back. I can see why you always hogged it."

I didn't answer. I could feel Harden' s eyes on me in the rearview mirror, but I refused to meet his gaze.

He pulled up to our building and turned to Krista, handing her the pharmacy bag he' d been holding. "Here, this is for you. The best scar-prevention cream on the market. I don' t want my beautiful Krista to have a single blemish."

His beautiful Krista. The words were a deliberate, calculated strike, aimed directly at my heart. And they hit their mark. I felt the impact like a physical blow, a sharp, stabbing pain that resonated through my entire body. My arm throbbed in time with my broken heart.

I must have made a sound, a small, choked gasp, because Harden' s attention finally shifted to me.

"What' s wrong now?" he asked, his voice laced with impatience. "It' s just a scratch, Hazel. Don' t be so dramatic."

He and Krista began to chat animatedly about their plans for the week, their voices a cheerful, oblivious buzz that filled a car thick with my silent anguish. My pain, my bleeding, my humiliation-it was all an inconvenient footnote to their grand love story.

"We should go look at wedding venues tomorrow," Harden suggested, his voice bright.

The word 'wedding' was so absurd, so utterly grotesque in this context, that a bitter laugh almost escaped me.

"Oh, that sounds wonderful!" Krista chirped. "But Hazel will need to come. After all, she' s the bride. I can help her pick out a dress. I have much better taste, anyway."

Her words were another deliberate jab, a reminder of her power and my irrelevance.

I thought of the past, of Harden whispering promises in the dark. "I can' t wait to see you walk down the aisle, Hazel. You' ll be the most beautiful bride in the world." It all felt like a scene from a movie I' d once watched, a life that belonged to someone else.

"I' m not feeling well," I finally said, my voice thin and reedy. "My arm hurts. I need to rest."

Harden sighed, a sound of pure annoyance. "Fine. Then Krista can try on the dresses for you. We' re about the same size. It' ll save us a trip."

The cruelty of it was breathtaking. He wanted his mistress to try on my wedding gown. He wanted to see her in white, to picture her as his bride, while I was relegated to the role of a sickly, inconvenient spectator. The mask of the loving fiancé had finally slipped, revealing the monster underneath.

A chilling realization washed over me. He didn't just want to replace me; he wanted to erase me.

"Harden," I asked, my voice flat, devoid of all emotion. "Are we still getting married?"

He seemed taken aback by the directness of the question. "Of course we are," he said, but his tone was clipped, impatient. "Don' t be ridiculous."

I turned my head to stare out the window, a dead smile playing on my lips. "Good. Because I have a very special gift for you and Krista. A wedding gift."

I didn' t wait for his reply. As soon as the car stopped, I opened the door and walked away without a backward glance, leaving him to stare after me with a flicker of something I couldn't quite decipher in his eyes. For a split second, it almost looked like confusion. Or maybe, just maybe, a sliver of fear.

Hazel POV:

Back in the cold, silent apartment, I slipped the wedding gift-the document bag containing my death sentence and the artifacts of his lies-deeper into my suitcase. The final piece of my plan was clicking into place.

I began pulling clothes from the closet, folding them into a separate, smaller bag. My movements were calm, methodical. A strange sense of peace washed over me. The end was near.

"What are you doing?"

Harden' s voice, sharp with suspicion, sliced through my reverie. He stood in the bedroom doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed.

"Packing," I replied, not looking at him. "I' m visiting my parents' graves tomorrow. It' s their anniversary."

It was a lie, but a plausible one. He knew how important they were to me.

He watched me for a moment, his suspicion warring with his desire to believe me. "Fine," he finally grunted, turning away. "I have to pack too."

I paused, my hand hovering over a soft wool sweater. "Oh? Where are you going?"

"Business trip to Norway," he said, pulling a designer suitcase from the top of his closet. "Frank and I have to close a deal. I' ll be back in a few days. Don' t miss me too much."

His attempt at a playful tone was grotesque. I gave him a small, tight smile. "I' ll try not to."

My placid agreement seemed to unnerve him. He kept glancing at me as he packed, a frown creasing his handsome face. He expected tears, or a fight. He didn' t know what to do with this new, hollow version of me.

Once he was gone, I pulled out my phone. I didn' t need to be a detective to know the truth. A quick scroll through Krista' s Instagram feed confirmed it. There, posted just an hour ago, was a picture of the Northern Lights with the caption: My ultimate dream! Someday… #wanderlust #auroraborealis

And right below it, the first comment: Harden Diaz: Someday is coming sooner than you think.

A bitter, self-mocking laugh escaped my lips. My stomach clenched, a familiar, agonizing pain radiating through me. Of course. A business trip. His business was Krista.

I leaned against the wall, trying to breathe through the agony. I had to tell him. I had to make one last, pathetic attempt. I picked up the phone.

"Harden," I said, my voice strained. "I' m not feeling well. My stomach… it really hurts."

"Hold on a second, Hazel." His voice was distracted. Before I could say more, I heard Krista' s frantic voice in the background.

"Harden! Oh my god, hurry! It' s Muffin! I think he fell off the balcony! He' s not moving!"

Muffin. Her ridiculously pampered Pomeranian.

"I' m on my way, Krista! Don' t move him! I' ll be right there!" Harden' s voice was laced with genuine panic. He was more concerned about her dog than he was about me.

"Harden, please," I begged, my voice cracking. "I think… I think I need to go to the hospital."

"For god' s sake, Hazel, can you stop being so dramatic?" he snapped, his patience gone. "You' re not the only person in the world with problems. A stomach ache can wait. I have a real emergency here."

The line went dead. He had hung up on me.

The pain in my abdomen intensified, a white-hot poker twisting in my gut. Black spots danced in my vision. The phone slipped from my grasp, clattering to the floor. The last thing I saw before the darkness consumed me was the cheerful glow of Krista' s Instagram post, a beacon of my own personal hell.

When I woke up, the world was a blurry watercolor of white and beige. The antiseptic smell of a hospital filled my nostrils. I was in a private room, an IV line snaking into my arm.

Harden was asleep in a chair by my bed, his head lolled to one side, his face etched with a convincing portrait of worry. He looked like the devoted fiancé. The actor was back on stage.

He stirred as I moved, his eyes fluttering open. When he saw I was awake, a wave of relief washed over his features.

"Hazel," he whispered, rushing to my side. He took my hand, his touch now feeling alien and repulsive. "You scared the hell out of me. Why didn' t you tell me you were this sick?"

The sheer audacity of his question left me speechless. Did he really not remember our conversation? Or was he just that good at rewriting history?

"I did tell you," I said, my voice a hoarse whisper. "You told me I was being dramatic. You had a 'real emergency' to attend to."

A flash of guilt, or perhaps just annoyance at being caught, crossed his face. He had the decency to look away.

"I' m sorry," he mumbled. "I was… stressed. I' ve cancelled the trip to Norway. We' re going to take a trip, just the two of us. Anywhere you want. A cruise to see the Northern Lights. You' ve always wanted that, right?"

His words were a poisoned arrow. He was offering me the very trip he had planned with his mistress, a consolation prize for my near-death experience.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to the back of my hand. The touch was like a brand, searing my skin. I snatched my hand away as if I' d been burned. The pain in my heart was a physical agony, sharp and relentless.

"Why, Harden?" I asked, my voice breaking. "Is this trip for me? Or is it for her?"

Before he could answer, the door to my hospital room swung open. Krista breezed in, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips.