Chapter 1
The night before our wedding, I found a memo on Edward Harris's tablet.
It was called Wildcat Taming Logbook.
It recorded every compromise I'd made over the past seven years.
He'd written: [Ignore her for three days, and she'll apologize first.
[Celebrate Olivia's birthday. She'll throw a fit, but she'll come back anyway.]
The latest entry read: [Cancel the wedding and go see the aurora with Olivia. Bet how many days she can last this time.]
At the end, there was a screenshot of his chat with his buddies.
One of them asked, [What if you really push her away?]
He replied, [Claire loves me so much. She wouldn't have the heart to leave me.]
Half an hour later, he came home and told me the wedding was postponed.
He said, "Olivia's been sick for years. This is her only wish. You've waited for me for seven years. What's a few more days?"
I looked at the face I'd loved for seven years, and suddenly, arguing felt exhausting.
"Okay," I said.
He kissed me with a satisfied smile and turned to pack his bags.
Later, I canceled the wedding party, took off my ring, and left it on his tablet. Then I grabbed my suitcase and walked out.
This time, the wind swept through the long night, and I never looked back.
*****
"Ms. Bennett, just so you know, canceling the wedding means forfeiting the 40,000-dollar deposit. Are you sure about it?" The hotel manager slid the confirmation form across the desk, his eyes lingering on my bare ring finger.
I signed my name.
"I'm sure," I said.
The food stations, the nine-tier cake, and the white roses flown in from abroad all vanished from the screen, one item after another.
Edward landed in Glacieland at dawn and sent me a photo.
Olivia Warren was wearing his coat, leaning against his shoulder, with a sapphire bracelet sparkling on her wrist.
I recognized that bracelet instantly.
Last month, I'd spent extra time flipping through the auction booklet, admiring it.
Edward had snapped the booklet shut and teased, "Getting married soon and still obsessed with these? You're going to fill up our safe at this rate."
But that night, he'd wrapped his arms around me and measured my wrist.
I'd thought he was planning a surprise for me.
Olivia quickly sent me a voice message.
She said, "Claire, don't take it the wrong way. Eddie said blue looks better on me. When he's back, I'll make him pick out another one for you."
For the past seven years, Edward had never got a wrong gift for me.
When my stomach hurt, he'd organize my medication by date before leaving on business trips. When I was scared of thunder, he once drove six hours through a storm to come back to me.
My mom died when I was young, and the month after my dad passed away, he slept on the couch every night, so he'd be there if I woke up calling his name.
He even remembered I didn't like nuts in my oatmeal, and that I always needed a light on my left when I slept.
But in that logbook, every act of care had another explanation.
He'd written: [Show up on a stormy night, and her dependence on me will grow stronger.
[Pick a gift she's mentioned but never bought for herself. It's the quickest way to win her back.
[Give her something nice first, and she'll stop pressing about Olivia.]
He'd also mentioned that Olivia was the one who suggested the last thing.
I turned off my phone and dragged my suitcase to the old house my dad left me.
The lock had been changed.
The property manager spent a while double-checking the records and finally spoke, sounding a bit unsure, "Mr. Harris came by last month with your notarized authorization to change the access code.
"He said the place had been empty for a long time and wanted to hand it over to a real estate agent."
"What authorization?" I asked.
"He said you signed it yourself."
I called Edward's assistant.
There was a pause, and he spoke in a low, cautious voice, "Ms. Bennett, Mr. Harris says you've been emotionally unstable lately.
"So your secondary card, the car, and access codes to several properties have been temporarily disabled. Once you've settled down, he'll personally come get you."
At the same time, my phone lit up with a notification that my payment had failed.
Edward had cut off my card.
Then, Jason Miller, one of his buddies, sent me a screenshot from a WhatsApp group chat.
The chat name was nothing special: Table Seven.
[Seventh time she's stormed out. Place your bets, guys.]
[I'm calling three days.]
[Last time Olivia was in the hospital, didn't she only last two days?]
At the bottom, Edward also wrote: [She'll last five days, max. She's got less than 1,000 dollars in cash.]
Someone asked, [What's the penalty if we lose?]
[The loser covers the booze for the wedding,] replied Edward.
Jason quickly recalled the screenshot.
He told me, [I placed a bet, too. I'm not sending you this because I suddenly grew a conscience. I'm worried it might come back to bite me later.
[Claire, there's more going on in this group than betting on how long you'll stay away.]
I couldn't take my eyes off that last line.
[What else?] I asked.
He didn't reply.
The property manager pushed my suitcase out the door.
I gripped the handle, my palms slick with cold sweat.
Edward was right about one thing.
I really didn't have much money.
But he was wrong about something else.
This time, I'd rather crash at the law firm than go back to him.