Chapter 1

On our wedding night, Mike Benson stood in front of the master bedroom door, blocking my way.

"Don't go in," he said. "There's still Sophie's stuff in there. Don't touch anything."

I was still in my wedding dress, clutching the keys to the place Mike had handed me this afternoon. My feet were numb from the heels. It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.

This was supposed to be our home after the wedding.

To be exact, I sold my little apartment to pay the down payment and took out a loan for the new home.

So there I was, a bride on my wedding night, blocked from the master bedroom by my husband because another woman's things were still in there.

The living room still smelled like booze and candy. The guests had just left, and my mom, with red eyes, squeezed my hand and said, "Claire, this is your home now."

But Mike was standing in front of me, not even letting me through the door.

I stared at him, my voice barely above a whisper. "Whose stuff again?"

He avoided my eyes, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Sophie's. It got overlooked when I was tidying up before. I'll have someone come get it tomorrow."

Overlooked, huh? He said those words so casually, like it was just some trivial thing.

But after eight years as an interior designer, I knew better than anyone how much of a person's habits, preferences, and thoughts could be hidden in a room.

Where a throw pillow was placed, how bright a lamp was turned, whether a cup was set on the left or the right... Every little thing left a mark.

"Move," I said.

Mike frowned, lowering his voice. "Claire, don't make a fuss tonight."

I suddenly laughed.

On my wedding night, my husband was blocking me from our master bedroom, telling me I was making a fuss.

I raised my hand and shoved him aside.

As soon as the door opened, I knew he couldn't fool me.

The master bedroom wasn't just about a few things left behind.

The entire room felt like it belonged to someone else, not me.

The walls were a milky white; the curtains were a pale pink. There was a velvet bench at the end of the bed, and the dressing table had those carved edges.

The diffuser filled the room with lilies and cedar, and the moon-shaped lamp by the bed gave off a warm yellow light that felt almost too sweet.

I stood in the doorway, not taking a single step inside.

Because this whole vibe wasn't mine at all.

I couldn't stand that girly look.

I hated those fancy scents.

I couldn't stand a master bedroom cluttered with soft furnishings and knickknacks. I liked black, white, and gray. I wanted it to be clean and tidy. Everything had to be just enough, with nothing extra.

But this room, from the folds in the curtains to the pattern on the carpet, carried the imprint of another woman, someone who had lived here, imagined this space, and shaped it again and again.

There was even an unopened curling iron on the dressing table.

And on the edge of the drawer, there was a neatly written label. [Sophie's jewelry.]

My eyes landed on that little label, and it felt like an explosion went off in my ears.

Mike finally came in, standing behind me. His voice was tense. "I told you I'll take care of it tomorrow."

I didn't turn around. I just asked, "Is this your idea of a surprise?"

Three months ago, he messed up my hair and grinned, saying, "Don't worry about the new place. I want to surprise you myself."

I laughed at him for being childish back then.

I was a designer, but he insisted on overseeing the renovation himself. My friends said Mike was really putting his heart into it and that he wanted to give me a place that was truly ours.

I believed him all the way until today, after the wedding was done, when I finally realized the so-called surprise was just making me see firsthand how much he couldn't move on from his ex.

Mike was silent for a couple of seconds before finally saying, "I just kept the old plan. I didn't feel like changing it."

I turned to face him. "Whose plan was it?"

He didn't say a word.

I said it for him. "Sophie's."

The clock in the living room ticked, and it felt like a slap across my face.

Mike finally looked up at me, and to my shock, there was actual impatience in his eyes.

"Claire, you need to let go of the past. We're the ones living here now, aren't we? Does it really matter who designed it?" he asked.

I looked at the man I'd just married, and suddenly, he felt like a stranger.

"Of course it matters," I said slowly. "Because the past you keep talking about is sitting right here in our master bedroom, with the label bearing her name still stuck on the drawer. How am I supposed to call this place home?"

He frowned. "Are you really going to make a scene?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I am. It's our wedding night, and you left another woman's traces in our master bedroom. Do you really expect me to turn a blind eye?"

With that, I reached out and pulled open the closet door.

The next second, I froze.

Inside, a row of women's dresses hung neatly.

White, beige, light pink... All of them were made of light, floaty material; all had the same size; each one was perfectly protected in its dust bag.

I recognized the slip dress at the very back.

Last summer, I caught a glimpse of an old photo on Mike's phone. I asked him, "That dress looks nice. Whose is it?"

He told me it belonged to his ex, Sophie Lane, and said he'd gotten rid of it ages ago.

But now, there it was, hanging in our place, barely a yard from my wedding dress.

I stared at that row of dresses, my chest felt tight, like someone was wringing my heart.

"Is this what you call 'overlooked'?" I asked.

Mike pressed his lips together, not saying a word.

That was when it hit me.

It wasn't just about stuff being left behind.

He never intended to clear them out at all.

I turned and walked out, ripped off my veil, and tossed it onto the couch.

Mike grabbed my arm. "Where are you going?"

"Guest room," I said, pulling away. "Or maybe a hotel. Anywhere but the master bedroom."

He let go, his face darkening. "It's late. Don't make a scene."

"Make a scene?" I laughed. "Mike, have you forgotten? I'm the one you married today, not Sophie."

The stiffness on his face finally cracked, and his voice turned cold. "Claire, I already said I'd take care of it. What else do you want from me?"

I looked at him, and suddenly, all the fight just drained out of me.

Because the worst part wasn't those dresses or that label.

I just realized how much I'd been kidding myself all along.

We'd been together for three years.

I was there for him through everything, living in a tiny apartment, helping him build his company from scratch, buying a house, and getting married. I thought I was the one who stuck by him through it all.

I thought I'd finally reached the finish line.

But the moment I opened that door, I realized I was just filling in for someone else all along.

I didn't say a word. I just walked toward the guest room, my wedding dress trailing behind me.

The guest room was tiny, with only a bed, a closet, and a desk, like it was thrown together at the last minute.

I closed the door, stood there for a while, leaned against it, before finally lowered myself to take off my shoes.

The skin on my heels was rubbed raw and clung to the heel of my shoe. Pulling them off made me wince, the pain sharp enough to make me gasp.

That was when the tears started slipping down.

It wasn't loud sobbing, just quiet tears slipping down.

I sat on the edge of the bed, slowly pulling my wedding dress together, like I was tidying up the remnants of a funny mess.

My phone buzzed. It was a message from Emily Lawson.

[Did you make it to the new place yet? Was it a surprise? Mike looked like he wanted to spoil you rotten that day.]

I stared at her message for a few seconds, and suddenly, my eyes started to sting again.