‘Her na’s Lea Marchand—Lea Lopez, once she’s divorced. Her husband’s a drunk, violent arsehole. He turned up at her hotel and wouldn’t leave her alone. I had to get her out. She’s coming back to Skyline with . He can’t touch her there. His family’s powerful and old-school. The divorce makes them look bad, so they’ll try everything to make her back down...’
Ashton’s voice was calm, unemotional. Like he was reading out a weather report.
I caught so of the words, but most of it blurred into a low, distant hum.
I was preoccupied with the feeling settling heavily in my chest.
What I felt was panic.
But not the usual kind.
I was terrified by how calm I was. And how... relieved.
I liked Ashton. That much was still true.
But for the first ti, I was certain—I didn’t love him.
Or maybe I just didn’t deserve to.
He was too good to be true.
If your boyfriend ca ho late, reeking of perfu and wine, after dinner with another woman, wouldn’t you be at least a little angry?
You would. If you cared.
So why wasn’t I?
When Rowan Hale had tried to stir up gossip about her and Ashton, I hadn’t felt jealous then either.
I’d told myself it was because he’d shut it down quickly and made it clear he wasn’t interested.
I believed him. He wasn’t the cheating type.
But this? This was different.
This woman, a head-turner in a red dress, wasn’t just so singer looking to boost her profile. She was soone from his past. Soone with history. Soone he hadn’t exactly rushed to tell about.
He’d had dinner with her, co ho late. Now he was cancelling our dress fitting to fly her back to Skyline.
This was the sa man who’d accused of not taking our wedding seriously.
If that’s not a red flag, what is?
I should’ve been livid. Jealous. Throwing things. Screaming.
Instead, I felt... nothing.
When I asked who she was, it was out of politeness. Mild curiosity, at best.
No jealousy. No rage.
Just the quiet, familiar sense of sothing slipping away.
Of course. The dream was ending.
I’d been floating lately—Fabrizio’s invitation, Ashton’s proposal—it all felt too good to be true. Like winning the lottery, then finding buried treasure, then getting a call from a long-lost billionaire relative with a mysterious will.
And now, finally, the fantasy was cracking.
Work was the only thing that felt real. I could hold the necklace in my hand, I could asure its weight. But the rest? It never quite settled.
‘She’s just a friend,’ Ashton said, eting my eyes. ‘An old friend. She runs Titanova.’
Whatever he saw in my face must’ve rattled him.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘What? Nothing.’ My knees buckled. I reached blindly for a chair and sat down hard. ‘So, she’s flying back to Skyline with you.’
‘Yeah. I’ll have to cut my trip short.’ He gave a regretful look.
‘It’s fine.’ I forced a smile. ‘I get it.’
Of course I did.
Rhys had been perfect—for Catherine.
And he only ever had eyes for her.
Ashton was perfect too. And now there was another woman. One he clearly cared about. One who only had to call, and he dropped everything to run to her.
The other shoe had finally dropped.
Yvaine and Ashton had called it cold feet.
But it wasn’t that.
It wasn’t wedding nerves or commitnt issues.
It was the gut-deep certainty that this wouldn’t last. That it was never ant to.
I didn’t know why. I just knew.
Perfect things didn’t happen to people like .
Caroline and Franklin had been perfect parents—for Catherine.
Rhys had been a perfect boyfriend—for Catherine.
Ashton would be a perfect husband—for soone else.
Any minute now, I half-expected Fabrizio to call and tell his offer had been a misunderstanding, or a prank.
‘Mira? Mira?’
‘Huh?’ I blinked. Ashton was in front of , his hands on my shoulders.
‘You’re crying.’ He brushed my cheek with his thumb. It ca away wet.
‘Am I?’ I rubbed my eyes. ‘Must be the fus.’
‘What fus?’
‘I was using a butane micro torch earlier. The vapour stings.’ I pushed myself up. ‘I need the loo.’
I ducked into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and shoved my head under the cold water.
Ashton’s voice floated in. ‘You all right?’
I straightened and looked at him. ‘Fine.’
The water masked my pale face, hid the red in my eyes.
He stared at for a mont. ‘If sothing’s bothering you, you can tell .’
‘I’m fine. Really.’ I clung to the sa lie about the fus. ‘It’s late. You should get so rest. You have a plane to catch.’
‘You never told how the dress fitting went.’
I thought of the gown—silk crepe in ivory, draped off the shoulder with a structured bodice and a long, dramatic train, embroidered with tiny pearls and silver thread that shimred when the light hit just right.
‘It was perfect.’
Too bad I wouldn’t get to wear it.
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