"Take Secretary Winfield back to the city first. He's got work in the morning, so drive carefully."

She tacked on one more thing.

"Text me when you get there."

Henry climbed into the car with the brocade box cradled in his arms, waving at us through the window.

Behind me, two of my aunts dropped their voices.

"He's only been at the company a year, hasn't he? How does he get to come to a family dinner?"

"Right? She takes him everywhere. Anyone watching would think she was showing off a—"

The moment they caught sight of me, the words cut off.

I pretended I hadn't heard, bending down to stack the plates one by one.

The drive back to the city was a long one.

Molly leaned against the back seat with her eyes closed, resting, the glow of her phone screen flickering across her face.

Not a word the whole way.

In the elevator, she slipped the phone back into her pocket.

"Don't take today to heart."

She watched the floor numbers tick upward, her tone light.

"Putting the ring on in front of a hall full of relatives, it's like a stage act. I didn't want anything that forced."

"A thing like that only counts if I slip it onto your finger myself, at our own engagement party."

"Once I'm through this busy stretch."

Once.

How many times she'd said that word over seven years, I never counted.

I only knew the ring had worn a deep groove into Grandpa's finger.

It had never once been on mine.

The elevator arrived, and I stepped out ahead of her.

"Molly, I'm tired."

"What kind of petty man spends all day sulking? Of course you're tired."

At that, my hands stopped moving.

Whatever churned inside me, all that was left was silence.

Once we were through the door, Molly spoke up out of nowhere.

"I know the ring today left you unhappy."

"It's nothing to make a fuss about. One ring. I'll make it up to you ten times over later."

She pulled off her coat and tossed it into my arms, then gave the order.

"Seven a.m. flight tomorrow, a meeting with the overseas investment bank, three days and two nights. Don't forget to pack my bag."

She didn't wait for me to agree. She was already on the couch answering messages.

She didn't need me to agree.

Every time she traveled, I was the one who packed the suitcase.

Silk blouses in the anti-wrinkle bag, melatonin in the outer pocket where it was easy to reach.

"Oh, right."

She looked up from her phone, the smile still on her face.

"Bring a box of stomach medicine too. Henry's been under the weather these last few days, and he insists on flying along. Stubborn as anything."

"Last time his stomach hurt so badly he was breaking out in a cold sweat, and he still gritted his teeth and finished checking the bid documents before he'd go to the hospital."

She shook her head, smiling. "That kid. Stubborn as a mule."

Watching her face soften like that, I suddenly thought back to not long ago.

To land that deal for her, I'd fielded drink after drink at the table.

The other side toasted twelve times in a row.

She'd sat beside me, smiling, answering for me. "Our Derek here can hold his liquor."

That was the only time in seven years she ever said "ours."

I drank until my stomach bled and got carried into an ambulance.

Three days in the hospital, and she came only once.

After a hurried glance at me, she turned and went off to visit Henry, who was hospitalized for a cat allergy.

All she left me was one line.

"Busy. Don't disturb me."

That night, my appendix flared up.

The nurse stood there with the surgical consent form, asking for a family member's signature.

Through the pain I called her, but the line was busy the whole time.

Just as I was about to call the company, a text popped up.

"Busy. Don't disturb me."

The name that finally went into the signature line was my own.

Crooked and uneven.

The pain was so bad I couldn't even hold the pen steady.

So it turned out she wasn't incapable of tenderness.

There were only so many spots on her list of people to pity, and I never made it onto one.

"Your own bag—"

I had just opened my mouth when her phone rang.

She glanced at the screen, stood, and disappeared into the study.

The door stayed cracked open.

Whatever she said, I couldn't quite make out.

Only the laughter came through, in soft little bursts.

Standing in the living room with her coat in my hands, I suddenly realized how familiar that laugh was.

Seven years ago, under the cherry blossoms, she had laughed exactly like that.

Back then she'd gripped my hand, her eyes rimmed red.

"Derek, wait for me."

"I don't want my family looking down on me. Wait until I've made something of myself, and I'll bring you back to the old house. I'll have Grandpa put the signet ring on your hand himself."

"The Henson heirloom ring only goes to the family's son-in-law."

Back then I thought waiting meant two people walking the same direction.

Only later did I understand. I was the one standing still, watching her walk farther and farther away.

I turned and went into the closet.

What I dragged out wasn't her carry-on.

It was my own suitcase.

Her bag, I could pack and close in ten minutes.

This one of mine took a full seven years to pack before I dared zip it shut.

The study door opened.

Molly's eyes swept over the empty carry-on, and her brow knit.

"You still haven't packed?"

Then she saw the suitcase at my side, and her voice dropped low.

"Derek, are you even a man? Sulking with me over a ring—is that really worth it?"

"At the birthday banquet today, who were you putting on that face for? Henry asked me the whole drive back whether he'd upset you somehow."

"Just now on the phone, he even offered on his own—" She softened her tone. "'Once Derek's married, I'll return the ring, in perfect condition.'"

I looked at her and asked, calmly.

"Then when are we getting married?"

She froze.

"Seven years ago you said, once you'd made something of yourself, once Grandpa handed over his ring, that would be the day you married me."

"Today, Grandpa handed over the ring."

"Molly. Has the day come?"

Her gaze flickered.

"Why are you circling back to this again? The company's filing any minute. Not one thing can go wrong during the IPO window. Holding a wedding at a moment like this, if the SEC starts digging..."

I cut her off.

"Then I won't hold up your filing."

"Molly, let's break up."

Then I pulled an invitation from the drawer and held it out to her.

"Three days from now."

"It's my wedding."

Molly held the invitation, turning it over, then over again.

The gilded double-happiness character caught the light.

She didn't open it.

After a few blank seconds, she looked at me and suddenly laughed.

"You even had the invitations printed?"

"Derek, this little act of yours can't have come cheap."

She tossed the invitation onto the table, her voice thick with scorn.

"Now I get it. Hand over the ring at the banquet by day, produce an invitation at home by night—one thing linked to the next, right?"

"Was this Grandpa's idea?"

"He hands over the ring, you pick up the scene. One plays the good guy, one plays the villain—the two of you scheming together, cornering me into declaring myself on the spot?"

"He's eighty years old, he's gone soft in the head. You're thirty-three. You're going to play senile right along with him?"

Looking at her mockery, my heart still went cold.

She'd sooner believe an eighty-year-old man had cunningly set a trap.

Than believe that someone had truly stopped waiting.

"The date was set by the elders of both families. October third."

I spoke calmly.

"My suit had its final fitting last week. The venue's booked too."

"Both families' elders." She bit down on the words and let out a cold laugh.

"See? What did I tell you."

"Grandpa's even lined up the actors for you."

Then the mockery drained out of her face, replaced by something else.

That look she wore at the negotiating table.

"How many copies of this invitation were printed?"

"Have they gone out yet?"

She frowned, leaning down until she was right over me.

"Derek, the company just filed its IPO. If this thing leaks, what do you think tomorrow's business headline is going to say?"

"Pull back whatever hasn't gone out. Whatever has, I'll send someone to collect it tonight."

Her words were grave, earnest.

The same way she'd been three years ago, when she kissed me in secret.

That night the stars had been brilliant, and her eyes even brighter.

"Derek, I'm begging you to trust me. Just wait a little longer."

"I promise I'll prove myself, and marry you in style, with the whole world watching."

"Say something!" Her voice yanked me back. "Have the invitations gone out or not?"

"I honestly never imagined you'd push this hard for a title."

"Enough! Molly!"

Our eyes locked, and my voice shot up.

Looking at the woman I'd once kept buried in my heart, I couldn't stop my eyes from stinging red.

"The one who begged me to wait, back then, was you!"

"And the one standing here now, saying I'm pushing this hard for a title, is also you."

"These seven years, was I waiting for you, or did I owe you a debt?"

Her mouth opened, her chest rose and fell twice, but nothing came out.

She just picked up the invitation and tore it in two, right in front of me.

"My flight's tomorrow morning." Her voice dropped low. "I don't have time to sit through this act you and Grandpa cooked up."

"By the time I'm back from overseas, I want every trace of that invitation gone."

The master bedroom door slammed, hard enough to knock the wedding photo off the wall.

Glass shattered across the floor.

I looked down at the picture I'd Photoshopped us into, forcing it together back then to hint at a wedding.

Sure enough. Fake was fake.

Six the next morning, she came out of the bedroom dragging a suitcase she'd thrown together in a hurry.

The air was cold. The kitchen was clean.

The figure she'd expected to see there was gone.

Molly stood there, silent for a long moment, then turned and left.

The door opened. The door closed.

For the first time in seven years, I didn't get up early to make her a breakfast with love in it.

I didn't drive her to the airport myself.

Just so that, at the end, I could send her off with a "safe travels."

After she left, I cooked myself a bowl of noodles.

Ate it slowly.

Then I opened my phone and started canceling, one order at a time.

The birthday cake I'd ordered for her seven years running. Canceled.

The appointment number I'd booked so far in advance at the marriage bureau. Canceled too.

Looking back, I was the one who'd been the joke all along.

My phone suddenly lit up.

It was my fiancée.

She'd sent a video, the frame wobbling around.

"Derek, look." Her voice came from off-camera. "I'm not great at filming, so bear with me."

The cabinets in our new home were the natural wood tone I loved.

That whole wall in the study was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

"Didn't you say you wanted to set up a work desk?"

At the end of the video, the camera turned to the window.

Down below was a flower garden.