With a glint of mischief in her eyes, Joanne enlisted the help of one of the younger staff—Alia, a cheerful girl with clever hands who seed to love the idea of playing fairy godmother for the morning.
Her makeup was soft but radiant. The erald dress hugged her in all the right ways, the color catching the morning light like dew on fresh leaves. She twirled once in front of the mirror, cheeks flushed, heart fluttering.
"Do you think he’ll like it?" Joanne asked, smoothing the dress.
Alia grinned. "If he doesn’t fall to his knees, he’s blind."
Joanne laughed, cheeks warm, and grabbed her clutch.
She made her way through the halls with quickened steps, trying to contain her giddiness. The soft hum of her heels against the hardwood floor echoed like a heartbeat—each step closer to Jeffrey’s room, each second closer to him.
She was ready. For a beautiful day. For complints, teasing, maybe a photograph or two.
But she wasn’t ready for what was coming.
A surprise was waiting behind that door. Sothing she hadn’t foreseen. Sothing that would shake the foundation of everything she thought she understood.
Today, Joanne was dressed like a queen—elegant, radiant, full of hope.
But by the end of the day, she would question if the crown she wore was made of glass all along... sothing beautiful, but one that could shatter with the gentlest betrayal.
She turned the handle of the door quietly, her heart light, her lips curled in a smile that hadn’t yet t the weight of what waited inside.
It was their room. Theirs, at least for now—a space that slled like his cologne and her lavender oil. Where laughter had mingled with soft silences. Where comfort felt real.
And yet, when the door creaked open, the air changed.
Joanne froze.
Inside, frad by the rich colors of the stained-glass window, Jeffrey stood stiffly. His tie was being adjusted—ticulously, intimately—by soone else.
A woman.
Joanne blinked once. Twice.
The image didn’t change.
The woman’s posture was close, familiar. Her hands smoothed the fabric of his collar like they belonged there. Like she belonged there. The sunlight hit the edges of her golden hair, casting a halo around her as if the universe itself had chosen this mont to mock Joanne.
It was picturesque. It was cruel.
And it wasn’t Joanne.
Her stomach twisted. She didn’t know what had happened in the monts before she walked in—and perhaps she didn’t need to. The scene itself said too much.
She knew that woman.
Heather.
So this was the ex. The one who had texted her. Joanne had looked her up after that ssage, out of morbid curiosity. But Heather was more stunning in person—poised, cold, beautiful in the way marble statues are: distant, perfect, untouchable.
Jeffrey looked up then, catching sight of Joanne.
He tensed. He didn’t speak. The sunlight fractured across his face, filtering through the stained glass and painting him in pieces of color she couldn’t decipher. She couldn’t read his expression. But she could feel the guilt—quiet and suffocating.
Heather, by contrast, didn’t even turn around. She finished fixing his tie like Joanne wasn’t there. As if this was her place. As if Joanne was the intruder.
For a heartbeat, Joanne couldn’t move. The anger flared so quickly she could barely contain it—an overwhelming desire to storm across the room, grab Heather by the hair, and rip her away.
But she didn’t.
She swallowed it.
Instead, she inhaled slowly, deeply, like she’d done so many tis before stepping onto the farm fields with the sun in her eyes and the wind at her back. Composure. Resolve.
Whatever ga Heather was playing, whatever power she thought she had—it was not her place beside Jeffrey anymore.
It was Joanne’s.
So, she stepped forward, chin lifted, the erald dress swaying around her like armor spun from silk.
Even if Heather was the woman Jeffrey once loved so deeply he defied his own family for her—even if his feelings had once burned bright enough to leave scars—it didn’t matter.
Because his heart belonged to her now.
"Leave. Now."
Jeffrey’s voice cut through the tension, low and sharp.
Heather didn’t flinch. "Ciao," she said breezily, her voice laced with insufferable confidence. "See you later."
She turned and walked toward the door, heels clicking against the floor like a closing clock—tick, tick, tick.
As she passed Joanne, she spared her a single glance. Just her eyes. Cold. Dismissive. A mixture of pity and conceit curled in the corner of her mouth.
Joanne didn’t blink. Didn’t return the look. Heather was not worth her words.
The door closed behind her, and silence fell.
Joanne stood in the space Heather had just vacated, heart thudding loudly in her ears, pulse a fragile thread.
She didn’t speak.
Not yet.
She wanted to hear his voice now.
She wanted truth—bare, brutal, unvarnished.
And if it broke her?
Then let it.
Her voice ca out quiet, but every syllable landed with weight.
"Who is she? How did she get here?"
Not What was she doing here—that was obvious enough. Joanne had no appetite for surface-level explanations. She wanted the story beneath the scene. The roots beneath the rot. The whole truth.
She stood tall, though her heart trembled beneath the lace of her dress. She had waited. And waited. Giving him space. Giving him grace.
And now? His ex was in their room, tying his tie, in the one hour Joanne had stepped away.
Her voice didn’t shake, but her soul did.
Yes, he had told her he wasn’t leaving her. And yes, she believed him. But belief had limits. Trust had conditions. Even love, as deep as hers ran, had its thresholds.
Her eyes stayed locked on him. Waiting.
Jeffrey looked like a man unraveling slowly from the inside. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Like soone had punched him in the gut and then whispered sothing worse in his ear.
And that scared her.
Not Heather’s presence. Not even the way she had looked at Joanne, all smug and condescending.
But him.
The way he looked at her now—like whatever tether still held him to Heather hadn’t yet been cut. Like sothing still lived between them in the shadows. Sothing that shouldn’t.
Joanne took a single step forward, her voice softer this ti, not from weakness but from a rising storm.
"Jeffrey... what is it?"
She wasn’t looking for reassurances anymore. She didn’t want the easy version. She wanted him to tear the truth from his chest and lay it bare—because whatever this was, it was already bleeding between them.
She didn’t want to be a woman haunted by her lover’s past. She wanted to know what ghost still walked beside him.
And why, when Heather walked into a room... he looked like that.
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