Page 24 of I Do, You Don't
A flicker of doubt crosses his face. I close my eyes, inhale, and let it go.
“And when you realize what you’ve lost,” I add, “stay the hell away from me. I never want to see you again.”
I slam the door behind him. The silence is mine now.
It’s over.
And this time, it’s on him.
Wanting the biggest reminder of Gideon gone from my life, I stomp to the bedroom closet and yank my wedding dress from its hanger. The fabric gleams with taunting purity—its pristine white a cruel echo of broken promises. Anger surges through me, hot and unrelenting.
I fling the dress onto the bed and storm into the bathroom, wrenching open a drawer for a tube of toothpaste. Back in the bedroom, with a fierce grip, I smear the paste across the fabric like war paint—its icy coolness clashing with my simmering rage.
Not satisfied, I march to the kitchen and rip open the fridge, seizing bottles of ketchup and BBQ sauce. Returning, I unleash them with vengeful abandon, splattering the delicate fabric. My hands move furiously, each smear, each stain, a testament to my fury. By the time I’m finished, the dress is no longer a symbol of love but a canvas of betrayal.
Memories flood back, each one a dagger.
Wedding dress shopping. Delilah's voice slicing through my excitement: “That’s all you can afford? I guess Gideon’s not marrying you for your money.” Her laughter rings sharp and cruel. Later, when I confront him, he stays silent.
The night before the wedding. His bachelor party. He never comes home. He spends it with Delilah.
The wedding day. I am alone in the bridal suite, the dress pristine and mocking. The doors to the aisle open, revealing only emptiness where Gideon should have been. The realization hits like a freight train: he isn’t coming.
Months ofwarning him about Delilah replay in my mind. Months of being brushed off, ignored, dismissed.
I’m angry. Frustrated. Worn down. But most of all, I’m done.
Chapter 9
Gideon
Irub my temples, tracing the clean edges of my desk. I’m an accountant, trained for precision, for control. Numbers behave. But people? People bleed, distort, and lie. Lately, everything feels loud, impossible to measure.
The door bursts open, slamming against the wall with a crack sharp enough to wake the dead. A nearby desk plant quivers. My secretary jumps, her chair screeches, and coffee splatters dark across a stack of manila folders.
Calvin storms in. His face is flushed red, his movements clipped. The soles of his boots strike the linoleum with steady menace. He’s always worn intensity like a badge, but today it’s heavier. More volatile.
I straighten instinctively, my heart thudding against my ribs. The atmosphere shifts, electric and brittle. Calvin has never been subtle; his emotions usually serve as armor. But right now, that armor seems dangerously frayed.
The irony almost makes me laugh. He’s the angry one? He got the girl.
“Mr. Eastwood, should I call security?” my secretary whispers, her fingers white-knuckling the phone.
“No.” I keep my eyes locked on him. “I’ve got it.”
He closes the distance in a few strides. Ash and cologne cling to him, sharp and bitter. The last time I saw him, I pictured him in my fiancée’sbed. The thought still claws at me, but I choke it down. His fury demands mine.
“We need to talk,” he says.
I cross my arms, cool air from the ceiling vent stirring my sleeves. “About what? Sleeping with my fiancée?”
The words snap out—too fast, too hot. Regret pools instantly in my chest. This isn’t the place. My boss’s silhouette hovers in the glass office nearby, and I can feel the room tilting toward us. I don’t want the spectacle.
But here we are.
Calvin doesn’t flinch.
“No,” he says. “Meet me for lunch. Now.”
