Charlotte's POV - Two Months Later
The charity auction buzzed with familiar voices and forced laughter. I stood beside Thomas, watching him work the room with practiced ease—a handshake here, a business card there, everything orchestrated to perfection.
"Mrs. Ashford will look radiant in Vera Wang," Mrs. Pemberton gushed, clutching her champagne. "Have you set the date?"
"Soon," Thomas answered for me, his hand finding my waist. "Charlotte's been so patient with all the planning details."
Patient. The word sat strangely. When had patience become my defining characteristic?
The auction proceeded with its usual rhythm—art pieces, vacation packages, wine collections. I'd attended dozens of these events, but tonight felt different. Hollow. Like I was watching my life from behind glass.
"Excuse me, Mr. Ashford?" A young server appeared beside us, holding an elegant white box tied with black ribbon. "This was delivered for you, sir."
Thomas frowned. "I wasn't expecting anything."
"From Cartier, sir. The card says 'For tonight.'"
My stomach clenched. Thomas never bought jewelry without me. He'd made it clear that my engagement ring was the only piece that mattered until we were married.
"There must be some mistake," Thomas said smoothly, but I caught the flash of panic in his eyes. "I didn't order anything."
"The delivery note has your name and this address, sir. Should I return it?"
"No, I'll... handle it." Thomas took the box, his jaw tight. "Thank you."
The server nodded and disappeared into the crowd. Thomas stared at the box like it might explode.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Probably a donor gift. You know how these events work." His voice was too casual, too controlled. "I'll deal with it later."
But curiosity had already taken hold. And maybe, deep down, some instinct I'd been suppressing for months.
"Why don't you open it now? It might be important."
"Charlotte, it's not—"
"Please." The word came out sharper than intended. Around us, conversations continued, but I felt suspended in this moment, waiting.
Thomas looked at me for a long moment, then carefully untied the ribbon. Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay a stunning diamond bracelet. Delicate, expensive, intimate.
The card was tucked beneath: Thank you for last night. Can't wait for Rome. - V
The world tilted. Rome. Thomas had mentioned a business trip to Rome next month. Had said I couldn't come because it would be all meetings, no time for sightseeing.
"Who's V?" The question escaped before I could stop it.
Thomas closed the box with a sharp snap. "Some client, obviously. Probably sent to the wrong person."
"A client who thanks you for 'last night'?"
His smile was arctic. "Charlotte, this is absurd. You're turning nothing into a crisis."
But his hand was shaking slightly as he slipped the box into his jacket pocket. And suddenly, pieces began clicking into place—late meetings that ran past midnight, weekend calls he took in private, the way he'd been more attentive lately, almost guilty.
"I need some air," I whispered.
"Don't be ridiculous. We're in the middle of—"
"I need air." This time it wasn't a request.
I walked toward the terrace, my heels clicking against marble, conversations fading to white noise. Behind me, I heard Thomas making excuses to someone, his voice strained but polite.
The cool evening air hit my face like a slap. Los Angeles stretched below, all glittering lights and hidden secrets. How many people down there were living lies they'd convinced themselves were true?
Thomas appeared beside me. "You're overreacting."
"Am I?"
"Yes. Some mix-up with a jewelry delivery doesn't mean—"
"Last night you said you were at the club until midnight. With Peterson and Marshall."
His pause was infinitesimal. "I was."
"Then who was thanking you for 'last night'?"
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Charlotte, I don't appreciate being interrogated like some common criminal. We're supposed to be partners, not adversaries."
The deflection was so smooth, so practiced, I almost bought it. Almost let myself slip back into the comfortable role of trusting fiancée who didn't ask uncomfortable questions.
Instead, I found myself saying, "Show me your phone."
"What?"
"Your phone. Show me who V is."
His face went very still. "That's completely inappropriate."
"Is it? Because if it's just a client mix-up, then there's nothing to hide."
We stared at each other across a chasm that seemed to widen with each heartbeat. Around us, the auction continued—laughter, bidding, the sound of a world that suddenly felt very far away.
"I'm not showing you my phone," Thomas said quietly. "That's not how trust works."
But his refusal told me everything I needed to know.
Mateo's POV - Same Evening
The coffee had gone cold hours ago, but I kept staring at the canvas—another failed attempt to paint anything that wasn't her. Two months, and I still couldn't capture anything but those golden hours we'd shared.
Sophie had stopped trying to cheer me up. Even she couldn't pretend the gallery rejections weren't wearing me down. "Too emotional," they said. "Too personal." As if that was a flaw instead of the entire point of art.
My phone buzzed. A text from Diego, my old friend:
Dude, turn on Channel 7. That charity auction thing.
I almost ignored it. The last thing I needed was to see Beverly Hills celebrating itself. But something made me reach for the remote.
The camera panned across familiar faces—the same crowd that had dismissed my work as "not quite right for our clientele." And there, near the back of the ballroom, I caught a glimpse of golden hair.
Charlotte.
She looked... different. Thinner, maybe. More fragile. Like a flower carefully arranged for display—beautiful, but slowly dying inside.
The camera moved on, but I kept watching, hoping for another glimpse. Hating myself for hoping.
That's when I saw her step onto the terrace, Thomas following close behind. Even from this distance, even through a television screen, I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself like she was bracing for impact.
Something was wrong.
I turned off the TV and pulled a fresh canvas from the corner. This time, I wouldn't paint her face—I'd paint the moment she left the light behind, stepping into the shadows. Maybe then I'd understand why.
But as I picked up my brush, I realized I was tired of painting her leaving. Maybe it was time to paint something that stayed.
Charlotte's POV - Later That Night
Thomas drove us home in silence, his jaw set, his hands gripping the steering wheel like it was an enemy's throat. The jewelry box sat in the space between us like a landmine.
"You embarrassed me tonight," he said finally as we pulled into his driveway.
"I embarrassed you?"
"Making a scene over a simple delivery error. People will talk."
I stared at him—really looked at him—and wondered when his concern for appearances had become more important than my feelings. When had I become so afraid of his disapproval that I'd stopped asking questions?
"Who is she, Thomas?"
His sigh was elaborate, put-upon. "There is no 'she,' Charlotte. You're letting your imagination run wild."
"Then why won't you show me your phone?"
"Because I shouldn't have to prove my innocence to my own fiancée. That's not love, that's paranoia."
The word hit like a slap. Paranoia. He was making me feel crazy for noticing what was right in front of me.
But as we sat in his driveway, expensive cars gleaming under security lights, I realized something had shifted. For the first time in months, I wasn't immediately apologizing, wasn't rushing to smooth things over.
"I want to see your phone," I said quietly.
"Charlotte—"
"I want to see your phone, or I'm going home."
Our silence stretched like barbed wire between us in the dim light. Outside, sprinklers whispered across manicured lawns, maintaining the illusion of perfection.
Thomas's smile was thin as a blade. "Go home, then. We'll discuss this when you're being rational."
He expected me to back down. Expected me to choose comfort over truth, just like I always had.
Instead, I got out of the car.
"Charlotte." His voice carried a warning. "Don't do something you'll regret."
I looked back at him through the passenger window—this man I'd almost married, this life I'd almost accepted—and felt something crack open inside my chest.
"Maybe," I said, "it's time I did."
The Uber ride home took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to sit in the back of a stranger's car and realize that for two months, I'd been sleepwalking through my own life.
My phone buzzed as we pulled up to my building. Thomas:
Call me when you're ready to apologize.
I stared at the message for a long moment, then deleted it without responding.
Some silences, I realized, spoke louder than any apology I'd ever given.