Chapter 1

On my engagement day, my husband's new assistant, Sophie Young, stared curiously at my bandaged right arm, grinning, "I've always wondered what it'd feel like to rip off a prosthetic arm. Since it's such a big day, Claire, mind if I give it a try?"

Victor Ford, my husband, encouraged her with a grin, telling her to go ahead.

I thought she was just joking.

But the next second, a sharp, tearing pain shot through my right shoulder—Sophie grabbed my prosthetic arm and yanked it hard. The latch was forcefully torn off, and the whole thing hit the floor with a loud click.

As I went down hard on the red carpet, the promise bracelet slipped off my wrist and skittered away.

Everyone burst out laughing.

Using my left hand to steady myself, I scrambled desperately toward the promise bracelet, my knee numb from the marble.

Victor stood there, glanced at his watch, and gave my shoulder a rough kick, clearly impatient.

"Are you seriously making a scene over Sophie's joke? Get up, or I'm canceling the wedding right now," he said.

My fingers barely touched the promise bracelet.

I froze.

Unsteadily, I got to my feet and said calmly, "Fine, then let's not get married. I don't want the bracelet, and I don't want you either."

As soon as I said that, the whole party hall went dead silent.

Victor frowned, his usual impatience clear in his voice. "Claire, stop with the drama. Who let you get away with this attitude?"

I ignored him.

Then, I bent down, searching for the promise bracelet.

After a long time, I finally spotted it near the crowd's feet—someone had crushed it under their leather shoe, then kicked it under the table to get it out of the way.

Just like my feelings for Victor.

Dropped on the floor, stomped dirty, then casually kicked away.

I bent down to pick it up, my right shoulder still throbbing where the prosthetic had been torn off, the empty sleeve hanging limp at my side.

Victor clearly saw how much of a mess I was.

He paused, trying to sound gentle, but it sounded totally fake.

"Can't even stand on your own two feet, huh? That's your problem.

"Alright, quit being so dramatic. It's just a cheap string. After the ceremony, I'll buy you a gold one," he sneered.

Then, he reached out to grab me.

I stepped back, dodging his hand.

"Victor, do you even remember this promise bracelet?" I asked.

His eyes went blank for a second.

He didn't remember.

He didn't remember the car accident five years ago, when I took the hit for him from that runaway truck—my right arm got pinned under the mangled car door for four hours.

The day I lost my arm, he held my left hand and cried, swearing he'd never let anyone hurt me again.

But I guess those promises only ever mattered to him when he was feeling guilty.

Gritting my teeth against the pain in my shoulder, I walked out of the party hall.

Victor's furious voice rang out behind me.

"Claire! If you walk out that door today, don't even think about coming back!"

I didn't stop walking.

I'd been looking forward to this wedding for years.

But when it finally happened, I realized—the flowers were lilies, which I'm allergic to; the music was jazz, but I prefer folk; the dessert table was all chocolate, which I can't stand.

This wedding was never meant for me.

"Fine, Claire, you win!" he snapped.

The bouquet crashed down from the stage, white roses scattering across the floor.

I stepped over the petals and pushed open the door, walking out of the party hall.

*****

After leaving the hotel, I stood by the roadside for ten minutes.

My right shoulder was still throbbing, the empty sleeve flapping in the wind.

I pulled out my phone and texted Ethan Carter.

[You said I could join your studio. Does that still count?]

After sending the message, I hailed a cab and headed home.

Back at the apartment I'd shared with Victor for three years, a huge wedding photo hung directly facing the entrance.

In the picture, Victor was in a black suit, his smile picture-perfect but stiff and unnatural.

I remembered the day we took it.

He answered three calls during the shoot, saying there were work emergencies.

By the end, we only had fifteen minutes left. He just did whatever the photographer told him, never even bothering to check the photos.

I didn't even get to pick my own wedding dress—he had Sophie go and try them on for me.

He said I wouldn't look good in a wedding dress with only one arm, so he had Sophie pick out and try on a style that would cover it up.

My phone rang—it was Ethan.

[Of course it still counts! There's always a spot for you here. By the way, Claire, isn't today your engagement party? Why are you texting me now?

[How's the party going? You and Victor have been together for so long—finally tying the knot, huh?]

I didn't reply.

I opened the engagement party album.

I scrolled through the photos one by one.

Victor, dressed in a black suit, had his arm around Sophie in a white dress. Their foreheads touched, and he was smiling in a way he never did with me.

Sophie was wearing a huge diamond ring on her left ring finger.

I scrolled to the last photo.

Victor was down on one knee, holding a ring box, looking up at Sophie.

Same party hall, same flower wall—only this time, I was already gone.

Turned out, I was never the main character at this engagement party.

I found the spare parts for my prosthetic, fixed it up, and dabbed some ointment on my right shoulder.

It didn't take me long to pack up.

Three years here, and everything that was truly mine fit into a single suitcase.

Just as I was about to head out with my suitcase, the front door swung open.

Victor walked in, arm around a drunk Sophie.

He saw me and my suitcase, paused for a second, then smirked. "What's this, Claire? Regretting it now?"

He set Sophie down on the couch and turned to walk over to me.

He pulled a stack of polaroids from his suit pocket and threw them right in my face.

The corner of the photo hit my cheekbone, burning with humiliation.

I glanced down—every single shot was him and Sophie, practically glued together, not a hint of restraint.

"See that? This is what a real engagement party looks like.

"You were the one who stormed out. Who else can you blame?" he sneered.

He was slurring with drunken swagger.

He stepped right up to me, clamped my chin in his hand, and that new platinum ring on his finger pressed painfully into my jawbone. "Who'd want a cripple like you if you weren't with me?"

He let go, snapped the promise bracelet off his wrist, and threw it to the floor. "What a worthless thing. Just scratches my skin."

That promise bracelet—I made it myself in the hospital five years ago.

Three days after the amputation, my fingers were still trembling, but I managed to braid two promise bracelets with my left hand—one for him, one for myself.

It didn't cost a single dollar, but it took me three days.

Back then, Victor took it, tears streaming down his face, and said it was the most precious thing he'd ever gotten.

Now it's snapped, lying right at his feet.