Chapter 6
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On my second day in the hospital, Camila dropped by for a visit.
She tossed a fruit basket onto my bed with a casual flick of her wrist. “What
did you say to Valentino? He went home last night, got hammered, and kept
rambling about traveling the world.”
“”
“Is this one of your games again? Too bad–all it took was one tear from me, and he immediately promised he’d never say such nonsense again.”
She shot me a smug look, but I didn’t dignify it with a response.
Suddenly, her expression shifted and she handed me her phone. Valentino was front and center on a live news stream, painstakingly copying biblical verses in an ancient cathedral. Behind him were colleagues, relatives, and mutual friends, all doing the same.
A reporter approached him, asking, “Mr. King, you must be doing this for someone truly special to go to such lengths. Who are you praying for?”
“Camila’s baby is due soon. I’m doing this for them.”
Another reporter butted in, “Who is Camila? Isn’t your girlfriend named Paris?”
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Valentino hesitated for a moment before he spoke, seeming torn. “Camila is my wife.”
The reporters collectively gasped in disbelief. Within minutes, online headlines screamed, “Valentino King married, not to Paris.”
See? He admitted it himself.
I didn’t know how to process this; I just gave a wry smile and went back to my work.
Camila seemed irked by my composed demeanor. “You really don’t care about Valentino at all?”
“Why should I care about somebody else’s husband?”
I felt no need to satisfy her curiosity, but she seemed unconvinced. Her gaze landed on the sketchpad in my hand, and she sneered.
“Just pretending, huh? Still designing wedding dresses? You probably don’t know, but the spiced honey cake you designed will be the centerpiece at my wedding. The suit you made for Valentino? He’ll wear it when we get married!”
“Who said I designed it for him? I’ve never imagined marrying him.”
At that moment, Valentino burst through the door.
Shock twisted the
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Shock twisted into anger on his face as he snatched the sketchpad away. “Not for me? Then who’s it for?”
“Is it for the guy who took you to the hospital during the memorial service, or the doctor who performed your surgery and comforted you? Tell me, which guy is it?”
Camila smirked triumphantly, adding fuel to the fire. “Valentino, how could you think that? Paris couldn’t possibly move on so quickly
“So she was cheating all along!” Valentino’s brow furrowed deeply, gesturing subtly for Camila to leave before he tore the sketches to pieces. “Leave me? Not a chance!‘
He bit my lip like someone possessed, seemingly satisfied by my refusal to yield.
Before things escalated, I pushed him away. “Stop the drama, I was just messing with you.”
The storm cloud quickly disappeared from his face as he enveloped me in an apologetic hug.
He never realized that a joke could expose reality.
He repeated again and again how he was caught in a bind and that once everything was sorted out, we’d be happy together.
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He claimed he’d done enough for Camila and her baby. From now on, he’d never leave my side.
Before he could finish, a paparazzo burst through the door, snapping a series of pictures before darting out.
The departing reporter shouted, “Breaking news! High–society scandal! Love triangle spectacular!”
Valentino jumped up but seemed torn about chasing after him.
“Go.”
It reminded me of the day when we planned the abortion, the words I told him as he walked away.
Despite his hesitation, he chased after the reporter. “Paris, if this goes public, Camila will be targeted by the media. I can’t let her suffer. Wait for me.”
I clenched my teeth to fight the nausea rising inside me.
Last time, he walked away and missed the chance to find out about my pregnancy.
This time, he didn’t realize it was our last goodbye.
After he left, I canceled my local identity without a second thought.
Before sianin~
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Before signing the papers, a message from him popped up: “I’m getting your favorite Wednesday treat. Hang tight for me.
I felt no reluctance, swiftly blocked and deleted him.
Then I boarded the plane and left.
