The day had started like a dream. After ten long years of waiting, Soren Maxwell, my boyfriend, had finally proposed. Our engagement party had been a whirlwind of laughter and celebration, champagne glasses clinking under the soft lights of the grand ballroom. I had been on cloud nine, tipsy not just from the wine but from the giddy excitement of finally becoming Soren's fiancée. But now, hours later, standing barefoot and bleeding in front of what should've been our wedding house, the weight of reality crashed down on me.

At the party, I had drunk a little too much, my excitement bubbling over and that's when things started to unravel. Soren—usually calm, composed and forever polite—had turned on me without warning. His icy voice still echoed in my ears as he scolded me for being "inappropriate," his frustration snapping through the air like a whip. And then, before I could even process what was happening, he had kicked me out of his car, leaving me stranded on the side of the road, alone and drunk, under the cold glare of the streetlights.

The walk back to the house had been torturous, a blur of pain and confusion. Three long hours of stumbling down silent streets, my feet aching from the high heels that cut into my skin. Those heels—a gift from Soren for the engagement—had once felt like a symbol of love. But now they were just too small, too painful, a fitting metaphor for how I had tried to fit into a life that was never truly mine. As I neared the house, my bloodied feet told me that I would rather walk barefoot than wear them again.

When I finally reached the door, the sight that greeted me shattered my heart into pieces. From the window, I could see Soren, the man I thought I knew better than anyone, holding his lost love, Ziva Sanders, tightly in his arms. The intimacy between them was undeniable. They were in our wedding house, the place where we were supposed to start our new life together, but instead, he was pouring his heart out to her.

His voice was soft, filled with emotion as he spoke to her. "I regret it," he said, his words cutting through the air like a dagger. "If you turn back to me, I'm willing to cancel the wedding for you."

I stood frozen, the weight of his betrayal pressing down on me like a suffocating fog. I watched as he held Ziva the way he had never held me. There was a tenderness in his touch, a patience in his demeanor that I had longed for during our ten years together. But it had never been mine to have. All this time, he had reserved it for her.

With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and dialed a familiar number. "Mom," I whispered, trying to steady my voice, "I'm not getting married anymore. I want to come to you."

There was a pause on the other end of the line and when my mother spoke, her voice was calm but tinged with a sadness that mirrored my own. "Alright," she said. "I'm getting old, Wendy and the family business will eventually be yours. The sooner you come, the sooner you can adapt to it."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, trying to keep my emotions in check. "Okay," I choked out.

My mother sighed softly, the sound filled with an understanding that broke my heart further. "I thought he was different," she said. "But he ended up just like your father."

Her words were like a slap in the face, a painful reminder of the man who had abandoned us years ago. I had always believed Soren was different—that he would never hurt me the way my father had hurt my mother. But tonight had proven me wrong.

"Wendy, don't cry," she continued, her voice firm. "You're still young. A woman's world isn't just about marriage and children. You can have your own career. Think it through carefully. I will be waiting for you."

As I hung up, the tears I had been holding back finally spilled over. Before tonight, I had thought Soren was the perfect man. He was clean, disciplined and always so composed. He never let himself get too close to any woman—except me. Even in his success, he had kept himself scandal-free, always appearing as the epitome of self-control.

But tonight, all of that had unraveled. At our engagement party, when Ziva had appeared uninvited, I saw a side of Soren I had never seen before. He had shattered a wine glass in his hand, his face contorted in anger. It was the first time I had seen him lose his cool. The first time he had raised his voice at me, over something so trivial. And then he had left me by the roadside, humiliated and heartbroken.

I replayed the events over and over in my mind, trying to make sense of it all. If Soren had acted this way for anyone else, I might have been able to brush it off as a momentary lapse in judgment. I might have forgiven him, clung to the hope that our relationship could still be salvaged. But the woman in the room was Ziva Sanders. The Ziva who had tormented me for over twenty years, the Ziva who had taken everything from me. How could I ever forgive that?

When I saw Soren willingly bring her back to the house we were supposed to share, something inside me broke. I was done. But even as I told myself to leave, to forget him, I couldn't resist the urge to check the home surveillance footage.

What I saw on the screen made my heart ache even more.

Ziva was lying in our wedding bed, wearing my pajamas. The sight of her in my place, so comfortable and at home, made my stomach churn. And there was Soren, the man who had once criticized me for drinking too much, now in the kitchen making her hangover soup. The sight of him, so tender and caring, was like a punch to the gut.

Ziva looked up at him, her voice dripping with arrogance as she asked, "Are you really going to marry a stand-in?"

Soren didn't respond, but the silence that followed was damning.

"You don't need to say anything," Ziva continued, a smirk playing on her lips. "I know everything you've done has been to provoke me. Throwing that engagement party was just your way of forcing me to show up."

"You can't escape me, Soren. You even decorated this room in my favorite style. The wedding ring you chose is the one I always loved. And even those high heels she wore were the ones I rejected." As she spoke, Ziva pushed her foot against Soren's chest. "The woman you truly love has always been me."

And then, without warning, Soren pulled her into his arms and kissed her—a passionate, desperate kiss, the kind he had never given me.

I stared at the screen, tears streaming down my face as the truth sank in. For ten years, I had loved a man who had never truly loved me back. His heart had always belonged to Ziva.

I turned away from the surveillance footage, wiping my tears. It was over. I was done.

But just as I was about to leave, I heard my name echo through the house.

"Wendy!"

I froze. Soren was looking for me.

As I turned back to face him, Soren's eyes widened with surprise. The moment our gazes met, he instinctively released Ziva's hand, the gesture as natural as if he had been caught doing something wrong. His voice, usually calm and measured, spilled over with explanations as if the words had been ready, waiting for this very moment.

"Ziva had too much to drink tonight," he began, his tone almost pleading. "She's your sister and I was worried about her walking alone on the streets, so I brought her home. She's a sensible girl and she insisted on leaving first because she was afraid you'd misunderstand."

I watched him, his face lit by the soft glow of the moon and felt an overwhelming sense of detachment. This man, the one standing so earnestly before me, no longer felt like the Soren I had known. It was as though the mask he had always worn had finally slipped, revealing a version of him I had never seen. He was defending Ziva, the one person who had made my life hell, as if she were some delicate, misunderstood creature. And he had so much to say—so many excuses—when it came to her.

Each word he spoke, so carefully chosen to protect Ziva, twisted the knife deeper into my chest. "I grew up with you," I whispered, more to myself than to him, my voice barely above a breath. "I'm the one who stood by your side for ten years. And yet, here I am, just a substitute."

His eyes flickered, a faint shadow of guilt crossing his face, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

I forced myself to stay composed, swallowing the lump of pain in my throat. "She's not my sister," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "She's the illegitimate daughter of a mistress. That's all."

The air between us grew thick with tension. I saw the change in Soren immediately—his posture stiffened, his expression hardening. His voice rose, sharp with anger. "Wendy! How could you say something so vicious about Ziva? Apologize to her right now."

I flinched, feeling the sting of his words like a slap to the face. His anger wasn't just about defending Ziva—it was aimed directly at me, at who I was, at what I had become in his eyes. The man who once claimed to love me now looked at me as though I were a stranger, someone beneath him.

"No wonder your parents abandoned you," he continued, his voice cutting deeper with each word. "No wonder no one ever liked you. That sharp tongue of yours really disgusts me. You deserve to be unloved!"

The moment the words left his mouth, I felt my heart shatter. The world around me blurred as I stared at him, tears burning in my eyes. His face, illuminated by the gentle moonlight, was harsh and unforgiving, as if every ounce of tenderness he had ever shown me was reserved for someone else now.

And then, in that quiet space between us, I realized something. Soren had always been good at protecting, at shielding those he cared about. When we were kids, he was my protector too.

I flashed back to a smaller version of him, a boy with wide, caring eyes, standing in front of me during one of my family's many explosive fights. My father, after cheating on my mother, had forced her out of the house so he could marry his mistress. In the chaos that followed, I was left alone, the unwanted child in a broken home. But Soren had been there. He had shielded me, wrapping his arms around me while I sobbed.

“Wendy,” he had whispered, his young voice steady and full of promise, "you're the best girl in the world. Even if no one else wants you, I'll always love you, forever and ever."

I had held on to those words, kept them close to my heart as we grew older. I worked tirelessly to free myself from my toxic family, dreaming of the day Soren and I would start our own. But as the years went by, the boy who had made those promises faded. Whenever I brought up our future, he would brush me off, his voice cool and distant. "Those were just childish words," he would say, as if they had meant nothing.

And now, with Ziva standing between us, he didn't even bother with the pretense of kindness. He had wounded me in the most personal way, with words that tore open old scars, the ones I had spent years trying to heal.

I turned my head, not wanting him to see how much it hurt. My vision blurred with unshed tears, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of watching me break. Soren's eyes softened for a moment, as if he sensed that he had gone too far. I saw him glance down at my feet—bare, bloodied and bruised from the painful walk.

He sighed, his anger cooling just slightly. "I'll just pretend you're drunk and rambling tonight," he muttered. "After this—"

"There won't be a next time," I interrupted, my voice cold and final.

"What?" Soren's brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. He opened his mouth to ask more, but before he could, Ziva burst into tears and ran from the house, her sobs echoing through the silent night.

Without hesitation, Soren rushed after her, his concern for her overwhelming any curiosity about what I had just said. As he ran, I noticed something fall from his pocket—a delicate pearl necklace that glittered faintly in the moonlight.

I bent down and picked it up, turning it over in my hands. The smooth surface of the pearls felt cool against my skin and for a moment, I was transported back in time. I remembered when Soren had a small pearl tattooed on his chest, back when we were young and life seemed so simple.

It all made sense now. Every little detail, every hint that I had ignored over the years, clicked into place. The necklace, the tattoo, the way he had always treated Ziva with a special kind of attention. It was her. It had always been her.

These ten years of love—the ones I had cherished and held on to—had been nothing more than an illusion, a fragile dream built on my own wishful thinking.

I stood there for a moment, clutching the necklace, before finally letting it slip through my fingers. As it fell to the ground, I felt a strange sense of clarity wash over me. I wasn't going to fight for this anymore. Soren wasn't worth it.

My phone buzzed in my pocket and I pulled it out to see a message from my mother. She had booked me a plane ticket to go abroad, scheduled for two weeks later—the same day as the wedding.

I stared at the screen, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. The wedding countdown in the living room, the one that had once filled me with joy and anticipation, was now nothing more than a reminder of my departure.

With a resolute sigh, I turned and walked back inside. I began tearing down the wedding decorations, throwing away the remnants of what was supposed to be our future. Every symbol of our life together, every trace of him, was discarded without a second thought.

If fate had decided this, then I would choose to use these final two weeks to say goodbye to everything I once thought was mine.

At dawn, I was abruptly awakened by the ringing of my phone. Soren's name flashed across the screen, a reminder that even my sleep couldn't be free from him. I answered, my voice heavy with the remnants of exhaustion.

"Wendy, are you awake?" His tone was light, as if the events of last night were nothing more than a bad dream. "I ordered your favorite soup. I won't be coming back today; something urgent came up at the company. We'll have to reschedule the wedding photoshoot."

I felt a hollow ache in my chest, but my voice remained even. "Okay," I replied, unsure of what to feel anymore.

There was a brief pause on his end, as if he hadn't expected me to agree so easily. He cleared his throat, then added awkwardly, "You don't need to take what happened last night to heart. I already apologized to Ziva on your behalf."

The calmness with which he delivered that line sent a sharp pang through me. He had apologized for me—the woman he was supposed to be marrying—to Ziva, the one who had taken my place in his heart. I couldn't find the strength to argue, so I simply repeated, "Okay."

Soren hesitated, clearly confused by my lack of resistance. He quickly added, "You know, the wedding is just a formality. Our relationship is so strong that we don't need these things to prove anything. Let's keep it simple."

"Okay," I murmured, letting out a bitter smile that he couldn't see.

Keep it simple. Sure, I thought, there would be no marriage certificate, no wedding photos, no officiant and soon enough, no bride.

After hanging up, I stared at the calendar hanging on the wall, its once-bright and joyful reminders now mocking me. I picked up a marker and crossed out the [Wedding photoshoot] task with one swift stroke. Each red slash felt like a wound, deepening the chasm between us.

Soren had always been too busy to notice the little things I cared about. I had filled the calendar with activities we were supposed to do during our wedding preparation, hoping it would bring us closer—small wishes that had meant everything to me. But one by one, each wish had been crossed out by thick, uncaring strokes. Now, they were nothing more than regrets, unspoken and unseen by the one who mattered.

I couldn't focus on him anymore. I submitted my resignation at work, determined to close this chapter of my life. Over the next few days, I arranged farewell meetings with colleagues and informed my friends that the wedding was canceled.

When I told them, they weren't surprised. One friend, in particular, looked at me with a mix of pity and sadness. "We had a feeling something was off," she said, pulling up Soren's social media on her phone. "Recently, he's been spending all his time with Ziva. People who don't know might think the woman in his posts is you, but we recognized her immediately."

Soren, who had never once posted a picture of me in all our years together, had now filled his social media with photos of Ziva's silhouette. They went to amusement parks, tried on dresses at bridal shops and watched the sunrise together on the beach. His love for her was out in the open, unapologetic. Everyone could see it—except for me. I had been blocked from his posts, as if my presence in his life no longer mattered.

My friend squeezed my hand. "Wendy, don't be too upset. Ziva can't compare to you. Soren will realize what he's lost when he finally sees her true nature."

I smiled weakly. "It's fine. I stopped caring a long time ago."

In truth, I had stopped caring the moment I realized that Soren wasn't mine anymore. He hadn't been for a long time. Now, as I looked out at the bustling streets below, I felt a strange sense of peace wash over me. In just a few days, I would be gone. There was no point in holding on to the past.

When Soren finally came back after days of absence, I remained indifferent. He walked in, his phone glued to his hand, glancing around the living room as if he barely recognized it. "Why does the house look so empty?" he asked, frowning. "Didn't you decorate?"

"You said to keep it simple," I reminded him, my voice flat.

He paused, his gaze drifting toward the calendar on the wall. The large countdown "7" stared back at him. "Time flies," he muttered. "Only a week left until our wedding."

Without a word, I tore off two pages from the calendar and crumpled them in my hand. "Our wedding is in five days."

He didn't notice the wishes written on those pages. [Ride the Ferris wheel together] and [Watch the sunrise and sunset together.] But I knew he wouldn't. Soren had stopped paying attention to anything related to me a long time ago.

At that moment, my phone rang, my mother's name flashing on the screen. I excused myself to the balcony, keeping the conversation brief. When I returned, Soren was still scrolling through his phone, as if nothing had changed.

He glanced up, curiosity briefly flickering in his eyes. "What's going on? I thought I heard something about a visa?"

I tensed but kept my voice steady. "Nothing, just work."

He shrugged, uninterested. "Okay, but don't bother planning any honeymoon. I'm too busy and I don't have time for a trip."

I nodded. "I know." The truth was, I didn't want a honeymoon either. Not with him.

Sensing the growing awkwardness between us, I pulled out the pearl necklace I had found the other night. As soon as he saw it, Soren's eyes lit up with relief. "So it was with you," he said, taking it from my hand. "I've been looking for it everywhere."

"I know. I saw your post online," I replied coolly.

Soren didn't meet my gaze, too focused on inspecting the necklace. His phone pinged again—a sound I had grown accustomed to. Ziva's special ringtone. He glanced at the screen, then quickly pocketed his phone, rising to his feet.

"I'm sorry, honey," he said, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. "I've just been so busy lately. Once everything settles down, I promise I'll make you the happiest Mrs. Maxwell."

If this had been before, I would've felt a flicker of hope, a belief that maybe, just maybe, he still cared. But now, those words rang hollow. I watched him leave without a word, my heart no longer heavy with disappointment, just numb.

Time slipped by quickly. Soon, it was the day before the wedding. I stood in front of the calendar, staring at the last wish left unfulfilled: [Have a family reunion dinner.]

It was a dream I had held on to for over twenty years. But I knew it was a dream that would never come true. My mother had never forgiven my father and I had never forgiven Soren.

That evening, I rode the Ferris wheel alone, watching the sunset cast its golden glow over the city. The skyline, once so familiar, now felt distant. As the Ferris wheel turned, I let go of every memory I had made in this place, allowing them to drift away like the soft evening breeze.

Meanwhile, Ziva posted a new status, her smiling face beaming as she sat beside Soren at a large family dinner. My father sat across from them, watching as Soren served her food. The caption read: [Both families meet to discuss final wedding details.]

I wasn't angry. I was simply amused. Whose wedding was this, really? Mine, or Ziva's?

I blocked and deleted her, a sense of finality settling over me. I wanted to message Soren, to say something—anything—but after typing and erasing countless words, I gave up. Just as I was about to leave the Ferris wheel, my phone rang.

It was Soren.

"Where are you?" he asked, his voice urgent. "Why aren't you at home? Send me your location. I miss you."