Chapter 3
The day after our wedding, Mike's ex called.
Even getting mad felt pointless.
Mike said quietly, "She just got back yesterday. Maybe she needs something."
"Go ahead. Answer it," I said, my voice flat. "Don't keep her waiting."
He didn't pick up.
The call ended.
Less than ten seconds later, it rang again.
It was Sophie again.
I looked at him and suddenly let out a laugh. "Mike, it's not that you can't get over her. You're just dying for her to come back, aren't you?"
His expression froze.
That look was all the answer I needed.
I dragged my suitcase out of the guest room, and as I passed the dining table, I spotted a stack of renovation papers.
He must've left them out in a rush last night.
I wasn't planning to look, but the words on the top sheet stopped me in my tracks.
it read, "Sophie's Wedding Room Wishlist."
There was a handwritten note next to it.
[Master bedroom: cream and light pink. White lilies for the scent. Sophie loves those. Vanity with rounded corners. Make sure the bedside lamp is warm. She's afraid of the dark.]
The handwriting was Mike's.
He wrote each word so carefully, like this was the biggest deal of his life.
Standing there, I suddenly remembered how, three months ago, I'd casually mentioned to him that I didn't want a ceiling light above the bed because I'd probably bump my head at night.
He didn't even look up, just muttered, "Got it."
Turned out, he never really cared about what I said.
He always remembered everything about another woman.
I reached out and grabbed the stack of papers.
Mike stepped forward, trying to snatch them from me.
I stepped back and flipped to the last page.
There was a photo tucked into the corner of the last sheet.
It was a screenshot of a post Sophie had made on social media.
The caption said: [When I get married, my wedding room has to be like this: cream and pink colors, white lilies everywhere, a vanity with rounded corners. Mike said he'd go along with whatever I want.]
It was posted two years ago.
Back then, I was already with Mike.
Back then, he'd pick me up from work every day, bring me late-night snacks, post photos of me on his social media, and tell everyone I was his girlfriend.
But at the same time, he was holding onto a wedding room plan for another woman.
I put the photo back and looked up at him.
"Mike, you're disgusting," I said.
It was the first time I'd said something so harsh.
His expression darkened instantly.
"Claire, watch your mouth," he said.
"Am I wrong?" I slammed the papers back down on the table. "You were dating me but still holding onto a wedding room plan for her.
"Did you marry me because you actually wanted to get married, or were you just looking for someone to fill this house for you?"
He opened his mouth, but it took him a while to get the words out. "That was from before."
"But you're still keeping it around," I shot back.
With that, I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the door.
This time, Mike didn't try to stop me.
Or maybe he just realized nothing he did would change my mind.
As the door closed behind me, I heard him say, "Take a few days to cool off. We'll talk again."
I didn't look back.
Because I knew exactly how things were.
Some things wouldn't go away, no matter how much time one took to cool off.
Like a woman who walked into her new home with all her hopes and dreams, only to realize not a single thing was chosen for her.
Like her husband, who, the day after their wedding, got a call from his ex, his eyes darting away like he was cheating.
Like finally realizing that three years by his side were as weightless as dust compared to the shadow of another woman.
When I got back to my mom's place, I didn't say a word.
She was still caught up in the emptiness after I got married. When she saw me dragging my suitcase in, she froze for a second. Then her face fell.
"What happened? Did you two fight?" she asked.
I shook my head. "It's nothing. I'm just staying here for a couple of days."
She didn't buy it and kept asking.
I bent down to change my shoes and said softly, "Mom, I'm just tired. Let me sleep for a while."
She saw the look on my face and finally dropped it, just headed to the kitchen to make me some spaghetti.
When she brought the spaghetti over, I stared at the steam rising from the bowl and suddenly felt tears prickling at my nose.
The only person who made sure I had a bed to sleep in, prepared spaghetti, and said "welcome home" was never Mike Benson.
I spent the whole afternoon sleeping at my mom's place.
When I woke up, my phone was blowing up with over a dozen of missed calls.
Mike called five times; his mother, Gloria Benson, called three times; the rest were from his friends and my best friend.
I didn't answer any of them.
At eight that night, the doorbell rang.
I opened the door and saw Mike standing there, holding a box of chestnut cake from my favorite bakery.
Whenever I got mad, he'd always pull this trick.
He'd hand me the cake, soften his voice, and I'd always end up giving in.
But this time, staring at that box of cake, all I could feel was the sting of irony.
Because Sophie was the one who liked that bakery first.
One time, we walked past it, and she pointed at the shop, saying she wanted some. Mike stood in line for forty minutes just to get it for her.
Later, when I happened to say it tasted good, he conveniently made it seem like it was my favorite too, as if he really understood me.
But that wasn't really true.
He just couldn't be bothered to get to know someone new.
Mike looked at me and said quietly, "Let's talk."
I didn't move aside. "Let's talk right here."
He frowned. "Are you seriously going to do this?"
"I'm afraid that if I step inside, even my own place will end up looking like it was made for someone else," I said.
My words clearly hit a nerve. His face darkened, and after a long pause, he finally managed to keep his anger in check.
He said, "Claire, the wedding's done. All our friends and family know we're married. If you keep acting like this, you're just turning us into a laughingstock."
"You still only care about reputation," I shot back.
"And what about you?" he retorted. "Are you seriously going to end our marriage over a renovation plan?"
I looked at him and suddenly realized that he still had no clue what the real problem was.
"Mike, it's not the renovation plan that's ruining our marriage. It's that you never really included me," I said.
He froze.
I continued, "If you really saw me as your wife, you wouldn't have blocked me from the master bedroom on our wedding night. You wouldn't still have her name on the toothbrush holder.
"And when I said I wanted a divorce, you wouldn't just think I was being dramatic. It's not the old plan you can't let go of. It's her you can't let go of."
He was silent for a long time before finally saying, "I admit I still have regrets about Sophie. But that doesn't mean I don't want to try with you."
"So what's your plan?" I asked. "Are you planning to let her stay in our home forever, in your memories, in every single decision you make? And I'm here to be the sensible, considerate Mrs. Benson, right?"
For a moment, I saw a flicker of awkwardness in his eyes.
But that wasn't because he cared about me.
It was more like he'd been exposed, with nowhere left to run.
He said quietly, "I'll get rid of it all."
"It's too late," I said.
With that, I started to close the door.
Mike pressed his hand against the door, his voice turning cold.
"Claire, don't push me," he said.