But the moment his comforting failed to fix me right away, his patience ran out, and he'd leave me to cry through the grief alone.

In the dark, I listened to the steady sound of his breathing and asked myself the question I'd never dared to think through.

Lance Simmons, does he really love me?

When I woke the next morning, Lance was already gone.

He didn't say a single word about the night before. Just texted me the way he always did:

"Breakfast's in the kitchen. And don't forget to stop by the group home after work."

Every Friday, we went to the group home.

Lance grew up there, so he looked out for the kids there more than anyone.

Rain or shine, he never missed a week.

Without a word, I gathered up the snacks and school supplies I'd bought for the kids and walked into the kitchen.

On the table sat a sandwich, already sliced, thick slabs of tomato inside.

I hate tomatoes. I'd told him so more times than I could count, told him I couldn't stand them, and he'd never once remembered.

I dropped the whole sandwich in the trash without changing my expression, turned, and left.

Downstairs, I bought an order of breakfast dumplings, then made my slow way toward the office.

I'd barely sat down when my phone buzzed.

I opened it. A message from my mom:

"Frankie, you and Lance have been together so many years now. When are you two getting married? Your dad and I have been waiting."

I held the phone, and something in my chest went sour.

She was right. After all this time, there should be something to show for it.

Maybe the trouble Melanie Cobb had stirred up lately was only happening because Lance and I had never made anything official between us.

If I were his wife, would none of this exist?

I thought about it and decided to bring it up with Lance after work.

Six o'clock, quitting time, and right on schedule his message came:

"I'm waiting downstairs."

I went down and, out of habit, walked to the passenger side and pulled the door open, meaning to sit beside him.

But the second the door swung open, I froze.

Melanie Cobb was sitting in the seat that belonged to me, an iced latte in her hand, smiling like she couldn't hurt a fly.

I frowned and looked past her to Lance in the driver's seat.

Seeing my face, Melanie said quickly,

"Frances, I wanted to come see the group home with you two."

She reached for her seatbelt as she spoke.

"I'll go sit in the back."

Lance stopped her, his tone perfectly easy.

"You get carsick. Just stay up front."

In that instant it felt like a bucket of ice water down my back, cold from head to toe.

Lance didn't like anyone in his car. It had taken me a solid month of wearing him down before he grudgingly let me have the passenger seat.

Even last year, when my mom came to Ashford to see him, he'd found it too much trouble and ended up sending a cab to pick her up.

And now, without a second thought, he was letting a neighbor who'd moved in next door only two months ago break his plans all over again.

I didn't say anything. I quietly opened the back door and got in.

The whole drive, the car was full of the two of them laughing and talking.

I might as well have been invisible, curled into the far corner of the back seat, unable to get a word in.

We finally reached the group home, and the moment I stepped out, the director came hurrying over and warmly took Melanie's hands.

"Melanie? Is it really you?"

"You haven't come by in years. I was starting to think you'd forgotten all about us."

Melanie clasped the director's hands right back.

"Director Whitfield, Lance and I grew up here together. How could I ever not come back?"

I stood rooted where I was, a ringing going off inside my head.

So Melanie was the childhood sweetheart Lance had grown up with at the group home.

My head snapped up. I wanted to ask him what it meant that Melanie had moved in right next door to us, but he looked away from me.

Before I could even shake off the shock, the director sighed again.

"Ah, such a shame the two of you broke up in the end."

"I even had the gift envelopes ready back then. I was just waiting to drink at your wedding."

The words hit me like a thunderclap.

Melanie wasn't just his childhood sweetheart. She was his ex-girlfriend too?

No wonder that whenever I used to press him about his ex, his face went cold and he refused to say a word.

I'd always thought he just didn't like dredging up the past. Only now did I understand. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk about it. He'd never let her go at all.

Lance finally turned his head, frowned at me for a second, then said to the director,

"Director, don't joke around. My girlfriend's right here."

Melanie looked at me and blinked, all innocence.

"So what? Frances wouldn't be that petty."

"Right, Frances?"

I drew in a breath, wedged myself between the two of them, and locked my arm tight around Lance's, staking my claim.

"I am exactly that petty."

"Miss Cobb, Lance is my boyfriend. I don't like him helping other women behind my back, especially not his ex-girlfriend."

The air froze in an instant.

Several seconds passed before the director scrambled to smooth it over.

"Oh dear, it's a misunderstanding, all a misunderstanding. Frances, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I spoke out of turn. Please don't take it to heart."

Melanie's eyes reddened. She bit her lip.

"I'm sorry, Frances. I'll move out today. I won't trouble the two of you anymore."

Lance's face darkened at once, and without a moment's hesitation he pulled his arm free of mine.

"Frances, what are you trying to do?"

"There's nothing between Melanie and me. We just came to the group home together to visit, that's all."

"I just don't want you keeping in contact with your ex-girlfriend," I said. "Is that wrong of me?"

That set his temper off completely. He gave a cold laugh, unlocked his phone, and shoved it into my hands.

"Fine. Then I'll delete every woman's contact off my phone right now and keep only you. Happy?"

I held that burning-hot phone and felt the cold seep through my whole body.

I only wanted to know where I stood in his heart. I wanted him to give me a little sense of safety. I wanted him to stand on my side.

So why did it end with me being the one making an unreasonable scene?

Melanie let out a soft sigh and coaxed them in a gentle, tender voice.

"All right, all right, everyone calm down. Stop fighting."

As she said it, she looped her arm through Lance's, easy as anything.

"Cool off, Lance. Let's go see the kids first."

Half tugging, half pulling, she drew Lance forward, then glanced back at me, her eyes brimming with a victor's smugness.

"Frances, don't overthink it. Let's take care of what we came for first."

Lance didn't push her off. He only swept a cold look over me and walked on beside her.

I stood rooted there, watching the two of them leave side by side, the last of the sunset stretching their shadows out long, the pair of them looking so well matched.

I didn't chase after them, didn't fight or make another scene. I just stood there quietly for a while, then turned and, step by step, walked out the gate of the group home in the opposite direction from theirs.

On the way home, I called my mother back.

"Mom, Lance and I aren't getting married."

The line went quiet for a few seconds, and then came a long, drawn-out sigh.

"Then come home."

"Okay."

The moment I hung up, my phone lit again.

A system reminder popped up on the screen.

【Today marks your seventh anniversary with Mr. Lance Simmons.】

I looked at the watch already tucked in my bag and let out a bitter laugh.

I'd planned to use this little surprise on our seventh anniversary to bring up marriage with him, properly this time.

By the time he got home, the hour hand on the wall had already swung to ten.

He set an iced latte on the table, his tone flat.

"I had dinner with Melanie today, talked over some things about the group home. That's why I'm late."

I gave a small "mm," then lifted my head and looked at this man I'd loved for seven years, and I opened my mouth like I wanted to punish myself.

"Lance, when are we getting married?"

I wanted an answer from his own mouth, the kind that would kill every last bit of hope in me.

His hand froze halfway out of his coat, his brows knitting tight.

"Have you lost your mind?"

"It's 2026. We agreed our wedding would be in 2030."

"Frances, bringing this up now, you're throwing off my whole plan."

I couldn't help laughing out loud. Right, I'd almost forgotten his rules.

But if the woman he was marrying were Melanie, he'd probably rush off to sign the papers with her tomorrow.

Early the next morning, I handed in my resignation.

Adrian looked at me, his face full of regret.

"Frances, it wasn't easy getting to where you are. Are you sure you want to quit?"

I looked out the window and nodded.

"Yes."

I hadn't seen my mother in a long time. I missed her.

Every time she came to visit me, arms loaded with bags, Lance was unhappy.

He said he didn't like being disturbed in his private time, and every time he'd go cold and find some excuse to send her off to a hotel.

The thought of it soured in my chest all over again.

Adrian sighed.

"All right, then."

The paperwork was done that same day.

Back home, I booked a ten a.m. flight for the next day, then started packing.

Clothes, toiletries, odds and ends. Before long I'd stuffed it all into the suitcase.

At last I sat down on the floor and opened my phone.

The account the two of us managed together came up.

From the day I first came to Ashford three years ago, we'd agreed that each month we'd each deposit half our salary as a family fund for the future.

But the instant the page loaded, my whole body went rigid.

The balance read $0.00.

I put in $700 every month, without fail. He put in $850. Three years of that came to $216,000.

That was my blood and sweat, every bit of savings I'd scraped together living cheap in a strange city after quitting my job back home.

With trembling fingers, I tapped open the transaction history.

The transfer time on the screen: yesterday, 22:47.

I grabbed my phone at once and confronted Lance.

"Where's the money in our account?"

It was a long while before he answered.

"Melanie wants to open a flower shop here in Ashford, and she was short on cash, so I lent it to her."

"But don't worry, she'll pay you back with bank interest."

I stared at the cold words on the screen, and it felt like I couldn't breathe.

I thought of last winter, when I fell seriously ill right after making my deposit. The hospital wanted a $3,000 admission deposit, and I cried while I asked him if we could take a little out of the account for the emergency.