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Chapter3
I didn’t sleep a wink that night.
The next morning, dark circles under my eyes, I followed William Ashford to Isabella Fairchild’s photography studio.
Outside, the sun blazed down like a furnace.
I felt carsick, nauseous, my skin clammy with sweat.
But William insisted on taking the long way, eight extra miles, just to stop at The Velvet Bean Café.
I’d seen that café in Isabella’s social media feed before.
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She’d once posted that her favorite beans were their Light Roast Blue Mountain Coffee Beans.
How… thoughtful of him.
One cup took nearly an hour to get.
By the time we left, I was dizzy from heat, barely able to stand.
And yet, he only bought me a bottle of Spring Valley Still Water.
“This coffee isn’t really your thing. Just have some water,” he said.
An hour later, we finally reached Starlight Portrait Atelier.
Isabella was seated by the floor–to–ceiling window, fiddling with her camera.
William walked straight over and handed her the coffee.
“Your favorite, Light Roast Blue Mountain,” he murmured.
Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying.
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When she took the cup, her fingers hooked ever so slightly around his wrist.
I saw every detail.
She glanced at me briefly.
“Go get changed.”
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I changed into the Royal Court Gown, the very one she’d once mocked as “tacky beyond belief.”
When William saw me, there wasn’t a shred of admiration in his eyes. Only mild resignation.
“Evelyn, with arms like yours, strapless gowns aren’t the best choice,” he muttered.
Then, quickly adding, “But you know I like you in anything.”
The shoot began.
Isabella’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears, as if she might break down at any second.
Her voice, however, was sharp enough to cut glass.
“Can you change your expression? Stop with the fake smile, it’s hideous.”
“If you’re not smiling, don’t just stand there like you’re here to collect a debt.”
“Miss Hartwell, if you’re going to get married, maybe try losing a little weight first. At least suck in your stomach.”
“All that extra arm and chin fat… our photo editors are going to have a field day.”
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William said nothing the entire time.
He just let her take jab after jab, watching her with something that looked suspiciously like pity.
I finally turned to him. “She’s talking to me like that, and you have nothing to say?”
His brow furrowed slightly, and he sighed. “…Well, you are a bit heavy. She’s not wrong.”
The heat, the humiliation, the rage, they all hit me at once.
I dropped the bouquet..
“Get your boss out here,” I rasped.
The studio owner appeared, confused but apologetic.
Isabella stood there, head down, saying nothing.
“This is how you treat your clients? The person who owes me an apology is your photographer,” I said flatly.
The owner nudged Isabella toward me.
Her face was pale, her lips pressed tight, eyes brimming but not spilling over, yet.
She managed a quiet, “I’m sorry.”
The moment the words left her mouth, William grabbed my arm.
“Do you have to be this aggressive? Can’t you see she’s about to cry?”
On cue, a tear slid down Isabella’s cheek.
She turned and fled to the back lounge.
William’s eyes followed her retreating figure, his fists clenched like he was seconds away from running after her.
The owner kept apologizing to me, but William couldn’t stand still any longer.
“I’m going for a smoke,” he said, and left in her direction.
When I made it to the lounge, both of them were gone.
On the empty chair sat a brand–new Prada bag, identical in style to the one William had given me, but the quality was worlds
This one was real.
Hearing a faint sound, I followed it through the back door into the stairwell.
They were there, tucked in the corner.
Isabella sniffled softly as William took her hand and kissed it.
“I’m sorry you had to put up with that, sweetheart. Don’t cry.”
She buried her face against his chest.
“If I didn’t love you, if I didn’t care about your situation, I would’ve smashed my camera in her face.”
William sighed. “I owe you…”
Owe her? And me? What did I get?
I let out a bitter laugh under my breath.
This was why I’d agreed to the shoot, just to get proof.
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To see exactly what they were to each other.
Ten years together, and it was all ending here.
It hurt like hell, but it was a pain I needed to feel.
Once it was over, it was over for good.
I turned and walked out of Starlight Portrait Atelier.
Back at our home, I packed my bags and left.
I hadn’t even reached my parents‘ place when my phone buzzed twice.
William had tagged me in the family group chat:
Evelyn, where are you? You left?
I took the day off to do this shoot with you. You just walk out? Don’t you think that’s a little childish?
Margaret Ashford popped up immediately:
What’s going on? Didn’t finish the photos?
I told you from the start, these frilly things are a waste of money. Marriage is about real life, not romance.
You insisted on spending thousands, and now you’re throwing a tantrum? Do you think my son’s money grows on trees?
I didn’t reply.
She tagged me again. Over. And over. At least twenty times.
Evelyn, did you see my messages? What about your manners? I’m your fiance’s mother.
Margaret had always been sharp–tongued, convinced no woman alive was good enough for her son.
I’d swallowed it for years.
Not anymore.
Without a word, I left the group chat.
A second later, William messaged me privately.
Chapter3
