Chapter 8
Fiona couldn’t bear to keep up appearances with these people anymore. She returned to Moonview Estate alone, her sanctuary turned prison.
After days of methodical purging, what had once been a warm, celebratory bridal suite now resembled a cold, staged showroom. Her wedding dress lay discarded by the door like a broken promise.
She pulled out her suitcase and began packing her final belongings. The weight of her history with Quentin pressed down on her with every item she touched. They’d known each other for so long–too long–and every corner of this place screamed with memories of their shared past. Because of this, she decided to take only the bare essentials. Everything else could burn with her old life.
As dawn broke the next morning, casting long shadows across her room, the
makeup artist knocked on her door. Fiona had wanted to look stunning for her departure her own private rebellion, looking her best as she walked away from
this mess.
But just as she settled into the chair before her vanity mirror, Quentin burst in,
breathless and flustered.
“Daisy’s makeup artist canceled last minute,” he explained hurriedly. “She’s crying hysterically. Could your makeup artist go to her first?”
The makeup artist froze, caught between protocol and this unprecedented request —a bride giving up her preparation time for a bridesmaid? It was unheard of. But Fiona just nodded calmly, her face a mask of serenity. “Go ahead. I’m in no
rush.”
Her easy acquiescence left a bitter taste in Quentin’s mouth. On their wedding day, shouldn’t she put up more of a fight? Shouldn’t she throw a tantrum like Daisy? But Fiona showed nothing–no anger, no jealousy, no emotion at all. It was as if noj she’d already checked out of their relationship, out of this wedding, out of his life.
entirely.
The thought terrified him. A horrible realization crept into his mind: what if after today, he’d never see Fiona again?
1/3
08
But Frederick’s urgent calls pulled him away before he could dwell on it. “Fiona, I’ll be right back,” he promised. “I swear, this is the last time.”
The last time?
Fiona couldn’t help but laugh. He was right about one thing–it was the last time. In just a few hours, she’d be on a plane to a foreign country, never to return. After Quentin left, Fiona stood up and surveyed the room. Over the years, he’d showered her with gifts: designer bags, expensive dresses, jewelry. Smaller tokens too–stuffed animals, bubble tea vouchers, gaming consoles. Without exception,
every single item matched Daisy’s tastes perfectly.
She’d once treasured these gifts, blind to their true meaning. Now, one by one, she destroyed them all. Designer bags and dresses fell to scissors, jewelry shattered under her hammer, stuffed animals disappeared into the trash.
Each destruction felt like breaking another chain that had bound her to this false
life.
After everything was done, Fiona tore off the last page of her calendar.
Written on it was her life’s greatest wish: “To wear the most beautiful wedding
dress and marry Quentin, the love of my
life.
Now that wedding dress lay in ruins, destroyed beyond recognition.
And the man she once loved had become someone she no longer recognized. Fiona crumpled the paper into a tight ball and hurled it across the room with all her might.
The paper ball traced an arc through the air, drawing a symbolic line between her past and future.
The first light of dawn was breaking over East Lockhart.
Fiona wiped away her tears and pulled open the curtains, letting the early morning sunlight flood the room.
Everything that came before was now dead and buried, like a chapter slammed
shut.
None of it – not a single memory was worth holding onto anymore.
2/3
08
Sliding on her designer sunglasses, she hailed a cab to meet the media mogul her
friend had introduced her to earlier.
Without wasting a moment on pleasantries, she got straight to the point. “I have an exclusive story that will break the internet. How much are you willing to pay?” Lockhart raised an eyebrow and held up five fingers.
“If it involves Mr. Sherwood, I’m prepared to offer this much.”
“Five million it is,” Fiona replied coolly. “But I have one condition – the story must go live across all platforms the moment the wedding ceremony begins.”
“Deal!”
Fiona placed the bank card Quentin had given her on the table, alongside the USB
drive.
Then, empty–handed and lighter than she’d felt in years, she boarded her flight
alone.
