I sat on a bench in front of my apartment and waited for Mr. Perez's reply. Finally, when the sky had turned bright, he replied, "The position was filled after you rejected the offer. I did everything I could to get you a promotion, but you'll have to work in the mountains for one year as part of an aid group. The living conditions there are terrible.

"Also, didn't you say that you're planning to settle down here after getting married? You should consider it properly."

"I've thought it through, Mr. Perez. I'm willing to head to the mountains," I typed in my response to him.

It went through right before my phone ran out of battery, and I heaved a sigh of relief.

Throughout the past eight years, I'd always give myself excuses to forgive Harold no matter what he'd done.

This time, though, I was truly exhausted.

The moment I got ready to head home, a hand closed around my wrist and yanked. "Why didn't you tell me after you reached the apartment?"

I looked up to see Harold's furious expression, and I felt cold. He'd been busy canoodling with Elise—he was probably worried that I'd barge in at the wrong time and catch them in the act.

I couldn't be bothered to expose him, so I merely said calmly, "My phone ran out of battery."

He scrutinized me doubtfully. When he saw nothing out of the ordinary on my face, he softened. Surprisingly, he took notice of the bruises on my arm.

He'd broken his promise to marry me once because the lighting was bad. When I climbed up to adjust the lights, I fell down from the ladder and was bruised.

"Why did you hurt yourself so badly?" he asked. "I'll drive you to the hospital."

The bruises did hurt, so I didn't say no. I got into the car after him.

The moment I pulled the door to the passenger seat open, he quickly snatched something up and tucked it into his pocket.

The fabric of a pair of lacy panties peeked out of his bulging pockets. I pretended I didn't see anything as I buckled my seatbelt.

A few minutes after he started driving, a unique ringtone belonging to Elise echoed in the car. He glanced at me and declined the call, but then he began typing rapidly on the screen, an indulgent smile on his face.

We drove by the hospital, but he had no plans to stop.

"Elise said that she wanted breakfast from Ron's, but she was late and didn't get to line up," he said. "We have Band-Aids at home; you can use them."

His gaze met mine in the rearview mirror. He averted his gaze awkwardly and explained, "She's your younger sister—there's no better choice for your maid of honor. I had her stay at our place for now."

His efforts to cover things up were futile. My chest hurt, as it usually did, and I took a deep breath.

He knew that Elise's mother had, in an attempt to marry my father, forced my mother into committing suicide. He'd also witnessed Elise lead the group of bullies who cornered me in the restroom, grabbed my hair, and beat me up.

How could he still say something so absolutely ludicrous?

"I'm not related to that homewrecker's daughter."

The moment I finished my sentence, he abruptly stepped hard on the brakes. Not expecting that, my head collided against the door.

Harold, who'd always been gentle and refined, was now castigating me with a furious expression. "I didn't expect these words from a psychiatrist, of all people! How could you be so cruel? No wonder your father kicked you out of the house!

"Your mother jumped from a building because she couldn't take it, because she was mentally weak. It has nothing to do with Elise and her mom!

"Do you know how guilty Elise feels because of this? If you insist on obsessing over this, Shana, you'll end up like your mother one day!"

Strangely, when I looked at his twisted face, the image of Harold in his teens appeared in my mind.

When I'd almost killed myself from depression, it was Harold who had held tightly onto me and refused to let go.

"Even if everyone else abandons you, Shana," he said, "you still have me. I'll always be by your side."

It was also Harold who'd walked with me to school and back. He'd been worried that Elise would bully me, so he'd waited for me beside the female restroom despite the weird looks he received.

Since when was this young man in my memories—one who'd protect me no matter what—gone for good?

Before I knew it, Harold had left me alone by the roadside. "Elise wants nothing but to make it up to you, but you won't accept her goodwill. You're always wearing that frown on your face too.

"Walk back home alone and reflect on your atrocious behavior along the way!" he said.

And so I dragged my battered body back home. After what seemed like forever, I arrived at the front door, which I wouldn't open no matter what I tried.

When the alarm blared loudly, Elise strutted over and opened the door, her head held high. She said, covering her mouth in a mockery of an apologetic expression, "Oh, it's you, Shana. I'm sorry. I couldn't remember the complicated passcode, so Harold changed it into something simpler."

I nodded expressionlessly instead of breaking down like she'd wanted, so she pouted in disappointment.

Harold, on the other hand, was satisfied with my reaction—he probably assumed that I'd taken his words to heart. He picked a fallen leaf from my hair, as gentle as he'd been before.

"I'm happy to see you've thought it through," he said. "Come on in. The designer is waiting for you to pick the wedding dress."

Elise didn't seem upset about it and instead appeared gleeful, which told me this was another one of their tricks.

As expected, all the dresses shown to me either had severed straps or zippers that weren't working. Only one of them—a plain white thing—was barely wearable.

Harold urged me with a frown on his face. "Why are you standing there? You have to take photos for the reception later too, so go change into your dress."

When I came out of the changing room, Elise had also changed into her maid of honor's dress. With its puffy, layered skirt and diamonds all over her chest, it was obvious that this was a high-end couture dress.

"I couldn't buy a dress that fit me because of my smaller frame, so Harold had someone design one for me," Elise said. "Don't overthink it."

The moment she finished her sentence, the photographer called, "Can the bride come over? We'll begin the photoshoot soon."

I didn't give her a response. I went over to stand beside Harold, forcing a smile.

This would be my last photo with him—a goodbye to my past.

Little did I know the photographer would yank me away and have Elise stand in front of the camera. "I called for the bride, not the maid of honor."

Harold, whose gaze was fixated on Elise, had no intention of explaining who the bride was. I also saw him furtively hold her hand.

Only then did I realize that his suit and her dress matched.

I didn't want to continue tarnishing my dignity, so I quietly made to leave. However, someone stepped on the hem of my dress, and I toppled to the ground.

Embarrassed, I looked back, only to meet Elise's gleeful gaze, that of someone who'd triumphed against her adversary. She came forward to help me up, faking concern. "Are you okay, Shana?"

I slapped her hand away, and she collapsed toward the wall behind her in an exaggerated performance, looking at me with red eyes. "I know you hate me, Shana, but it wasn't my fault that the photographer thought I was the bride! If you don't want to see me, fine, I'll go away!"

She then ran out, sobbing. Harold glared at me before chasing after her, still in his suit.

The photographer stood stock-still in front of the door, dumbfounded. "Are we still doing this, then?"

I shook my head. At the same time, Harold's voice came from the corridor. "No. Have someone take my place and Photoshop my face in later."

The photographer looked uncomfortable. After seeing him out, I bought a flight ticket on my laptop—even the time spent waiting for my phone to turn on seemed too long.

When I closed the window, I must have misclicked something, for a folder filled with photos popped out.

There were several thousand photos, all of Harold and Elise.

Whenever I suggested taking photos to commemorate moments between Harold and me, he'd always shy away from the camera with a frown. I thought he didn't like taking photos, but it turned out that he just didn't want to take them with me.

There was also a selfie of him from the chest up, revealing a tattoo of Elise's initials above his heart.

With shaking hands, I turned off the laptop and went to pack up my things.

Only then did I realize that I'd bought most of my stuff in pairs. Only I used them, though; Harold never used the items I'd prepared for him.

He was obviously cold to me, but I'd always ignored those subtle signs.

I tossed all the matching couple stuff into the bin and packed everything else before texting my best friend, Jane Ramsey. "Do you want to meet up tonight?"

I would be heading to the mountains as part of an aid group later, so I wouldn't get to see her for a long time. I decided that I should say goodbye to her properly.

Soon after, Jane's reply came. A simple question mark, followed by a long message. "Aren't you busy organizing your wedding? Why are you suddenly free to meet up? Harold shouldn't have left everything to you, even though he's busy with work."

"Where are you? I'll drive over now."

We agreed to meet in a restaurant we frequented. The moment I walked in, she came forward and looped her arm through mine. "Congrats on getting married, finally," she said. "I still remember when you'd go home from work just to cook for Harold because he didn't like takeout food. You'd even given up on your illustrious career for him."

Worried that she'd confront Harold after hearing the truth, I said nothing. I forced a smile and raised my glass of wine, changing the topic. "Let's talk about something else," I said. "We aren't going home sober today, you hear me?"

Indeed, both of us got wasted before calling a cab home. I stumbled toward the door and pushed it open, only to see Harold's face alight with fury.

"Who's that guy?" he accused. "You're getting married soon! What are you doing, drinking with a man until the dead of the night?"

His grip was tight around my wrist, the pain sobering me up somewhat. "He's the cab driver," I replied.

Harold's fury subsided, and he let go of me. It was a rare occasion, it seemed—he went into the kitchen and made me eggs and bacon. Greasy food always helped when I was drunk.

"I explained everything to Elise just now," he began. "She still wants to be your maid of honor."

When I stared into his eyes silently, he averted his gaze. He then caught sight of the open suitcase in the corner of the room.

He took the chance to change the topic, saying with a frown, "Did you arrange for a honeymoon behind my back?"

When I shook my head, he pointed at the suitcase, appearing perplexed. "What's this, then? By the way, I feel like a lot of the stuff at home is gone. Are you going on a long trip?"

"The suitcase's just there." I waved my hand. "I cleared some random stuff lying around. Don't worry about it."

Before he could doubt my words, Harold was distracted by the red mark on my ring finger. He grabbed my hand and asked, his eyes reddening, "Where's the ring I gave you? Why aren't you wearing it?"

Right now, I understood him somewhat—lying came easily to me after the first time. "It's so tight that it makes my finger hurt, so I took it off."

Seemingly relieved, he left a tender kiss on the tip of my finger. "It's too late to have one custom-made now," he said. "I'll give you a better one after the wedding."

He was so deep in the act. If I didn't know the truth, I would surely be touched to tears.

He seemed uneasy upon noticing the lack of expression on my face. He wanted to say something, but the phone rang. After taking the call, he hastily put on his coat and turned to leave.

"The power went out at Elise's place, and she's scared," he explained. "I'm going there to see what I can do."

He left and never came back until just before the wedding.

I boarded my plane on the big day. The moment I settled down on my seat, I was bombarded by numerous calls and WhatsApp messages.

Annoyed, I went to block him, only to accidentally accept his call instead. He was crying, it seemed; his voice was shaking. "Where did you go, darling?"