Chapter 4 · Dumping My Stand-in Husband

Phillip's pupils contracted. "What did you just say?"

I ignored him, grabbed a piece of wood with some incomplete letters carved on it out of the rubble, and clenched it tightly in my hand.

October 15th was Phillip's birthday, and also Lawrence's deathday.

Three years ago today, Lawrence was struck and thrown by a runaway truck while crossing the street to buy me a birthday cake.

While I passed out from crying in the morgue, Phillip was next door in the VIP suite, celebrating Briana finally getting over her fever.

That was how twisted fate could be.

Phillip deliberately threw an extravagant birthday bash.

He threatened that if I didn't show up, he'd have my gallery set on fire.

I had no choice but to go.

Briana linked her arm with Phillip's, accepting everyone's blessings like the hostess of the night.

The doors swung open, and I stepped inside.

The whole room went dead silent.

I was dressed in a solemn black gown, with not a single piece of jewelry on me.

Pinned to my chest was a single white daisy.

Phillip's smile froze on his face.

He dropped Briana's arm and strode right up to me.

He snapped, "What's that supposed to mean, Flora? Are you wishing me dead?"

I met his eyes calmly. "It's an important day today."

Briana came over, pretending to be hurt and trying to make things worse. "Flora, are you still mad at us? It's Phillip's birthday. How could you show up dressed like that?"

Phillip, furious, tore the white daisy from my chest, tossed it to the ground, and crushed it under his heel.

He fumed. "Smile for me, Flora. I said, smile! If you don't, I'll have someone burn your pathetic gallery to the ground right now!"

I looked at the crushed daisy, Lawrence's favorite flower, and felt something inside me break.

At that moment, the tension I'd been holding onto for three years finally snapped.

Smack! A crisp slap rang out across the entire banquet hall.

I gave Phillip the hardest slap I could muster, pouring all my strength into it.

The whole place went dead silent.

Everyone was stunned. Nobody could believe that I, the girl who always put up with everything, had slapped Phillip.

Phillip turned, staring at me in utter shock. "You dare hit me?"

"Phillip, you make me sick," I spat.

With those words, I spun around and strode out.

"Stop her!" Phillip barked.

Two bodyguards rushed over. One grabbed my purse, and the other stepped right in front of me.

"You think you can slap me and just walk out? In your dreams," Phillip snarled.

As I wrestled with the bodyguards, the clasp on my purse snapped open.

Everything inside spilled out onto the floor.

It wasn't some birthday gift. It was just an old, yellowed diary.

The diary hit the ground, and a photo slid out, drifting to a stop right at Phillip's feet.

Phillip instinctively looked down.

It was a photo of a man, alone.

The man in the picture looked just like Phillip. Even the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled was almost identical.

The only thing that set him apart was a dark red birthmark on the man's right brow bone, adding a hint of wildness to his face, though his smile was soft and gentle.

On the back of the photo, in neat, elegant handwriting, I had written: [My dearest Lawrence, gone on October 15th.]

That date was three years ago to the day.

It was also the day Phillip and I 'ran into each other' at the hospital.

Phillip stood rigid.

The guests around us saw what was on the floor, and whispers started to ripple through the crowd like a wave.

One of them whispered, "Oh my god, that guy looks just like Phillip."

Another chimed in, "October 15th... Isn't that Phillip's birthday?"

Phillip must have thought I was hopelessly in love with him, so I always gave in and tolerated his temper.

It turned out that wasn't true.

I slowly pulled the photo from his rigid fingers, forcing it free bit by bit.

I looked up at him. "Happy birthday, Phillip."

I held the photo close to my heart and whispered, "Thanks for letting me borrow your face all these three years."

Phillip stood frozen, his fingers gripping the photo so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

He looked down at the photo and then back up at me, his throat working, but no sound came out.

"This can't be true," he finally managed, his voice hoarse.

The crowd was eerily quiet, except for a few whispers that stabbed right through me.

"Wait, no wonder he looked so familiar. It's because he looks just like that guy."

"Lawrence Hood? The art genius? I heard he died three years ago."

"Damn, Phillip's been used as a stand-in for three years."

"Man, this is just epic."

I tuned out all the whispers and just bent down to gather up the things scattered across the floor.

There was a diary, the pen, and the photo Phillip had crumpled in his fist.

But before I could grab it, a slender, immaculate hand reached out and picked up the diary first.

It was a gorgeous hand, with sharp, defined knuckles, and on the wrist was an old Patek Philippe. The glass face had a subtle crack running through it.

Chapter 4

Phillip's pupils contracted. "What did you just say?"

I ignored him, grabbed a piece of wood with some incomplete letters carved on it out of the rubble, and clenched it tightly in my hand.

October 15th was Phillip's birthday, and also Lawrence's deathday.

Three years ago today, Lawrence was struck and thrown by a runaway truck while crossing the street to buy me a birthday cake.

While I passed out from crying in the morgue, Phillip was next door in the VIP suite, celebrating Briana finally getting over her fever.

That was how twisted fate could be.

Phillip deliberately threw an extravagant birthday bash.

He threatened that if I didn't show up, he'd have my gallery set on fire.

I had no choice but to go.

Briana linked her arm with Phillip's, accepting everyone's blessings like the hostess of the night.

The doors swung open, and I stepped inside.

The whole room went dead silent.

I was dressed in a solemn black gown, with not a single piece of jewelry on me.

Pinned to my chest was a single white daisy.

Phillip's smile froze on his face.

He dropped Briana's arm and strode right up to me.

He snapped, "What's that supposed to mean, Flora? Are you wishing me dead?"

I met his eyes calmly. "It's an important day today."

Briana came over, pretending to be hurt and trying to make things worse. "Flora, are you still mad at us? It's Phillip's birthday. How could you show up dressed like that?"

Phillip, furious, tore the white daisy from my chest, tossed it to the ground, and crushed it under his heel.

He fumed. "Smile for me, Flora. I said, smile! If you don't, I'll have someone burn your pathetic gallery to the ground right now!"

I looked at the crushed daisy, Lawrence's favorite flower, and felt something inside me break.

At that moment, the tension I'd been holding onto for three years finally snapped.

Smack! A crisp slap rang out across the entire banquet hall.

I gave Phillip the hardest slap I could muster, pouring all my strength into it.

The whole place went dead silent.

Everyone was stunned. Nobody could believe that I, the girl who always put up with everything, had slapped Phillip.

Phillip turned, staring at me in utter shock. "You dare hit me?"

"Phillip, you make me sick," I spat.

With those words, I spun around and strode out.

"Stop her!" Phillip barked.

Two bodyguards rushed over. One grabbed my purse, and the other stepped right in front of me.

"You think you can slap me and just walk out? In your dreams," Phillip snarled.

As I wrestled with the bodyguards, the clasp on my purse snapped open.

Everything inside spilled out onto the floor.

It wasn't some birthday gift. It was just an old, yellowed diary.

The diary hit the ground, and a photo slid out, drifting to a stop right at Phillip's feet.

Phillip instinctively looked down.

It was a photo of a man, alone.

The man in the picture looked just like Phillip. Even the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled was almost identical.

The only thing that set him apart was a dark red birthmark on the man's right brow bone, adding a hint of wildness to his face, though his smile was soft and gentle.

On the back of the photo, in neat, elegant handwriting, I had written: [My dearest Lawrence, gone on October 15th.]

That date was three years ago to the day.

It was also the day Phillip and I 'ran into each other' at the hospital.

Phillip stood rigid.

The guests around us saw what was on the floor, and whispers started to ripple through the crowd like a wave.

One of them whispered, "Oh my god, that guy looks just like Phillip."

Another chimed in, "October 15th... Isn't that Phillip's birthday?"

Phillip must have thought I was hopelessly in love with him, so I always gave in and tolerated his temper.

It turned out that wasn't true.

I slowly pulled the photo from his rigid fingers, forcing it free bit by bit.

I looked up at him. "Happy birthday, Phillip."

I held the photo close to my heart and whispered, "Thanks for letting me borrow your face all these three years."

Phillip stood frozen, his fingers gripping the photo so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

He looked down at the photo and then back up at me, his throat working, but no sound came out.

"This can't be true," he finally managed, his voice hoarse.

The crowd was eerily quiet, except for a few whispers that stabbed right through me.

"Wait, no wonder he looked so familiar. It's because he looks just like that guy."

"Lawrence Hood? The art genius? I heard he died three years ago."

"Damn, Phillip's been used as a stand-in for three years."

"Man, this is just epic."

I tuned out all the whispers and just bent down to gather up the things scattered across the floor.

There was a diary, the pen, and the photo Phillip had crumpled in his fist.

But before I could grab it, a slender, immaculate hand reached out and picked up the diary first.

It was a gorgeous hand, with sharp, defined knuckles, and on the wrist was an old Patek Philippe. The glass face had a subtle crack running through it.