But Mark didn't hear them. Their voices became distant noise.
He walked toward the table, each step heavy with disbelief, and slowly picked up what was left behind:
The ring.
My engagement ring.
The one I had worn every single day since the proposal, the one I treasured like it was a part of me.
I had always smiled when I wore it—refusing to take it off, not even when I slept.
And now, I had left it behind as if it meant nothing.
For the first time in his life, Mark felt a cold wave of panic sweeping over him.
He dialed my number over and over again—each time met with the same message: "This number is no longer in service."
Frantically, he tried to message me—but the moment he hit send, the app displayed the words that stabbed deeper than anything else:
[You have been blocked.]
The unease inside him twisted into dread.
He rushed into my room, flung open the closet—empty.
All of my belongings, my scent, my presence—gone.
Gone.
Could I really have left him?
No. Impossible.
I loved him. I had always loved him more than anything—how could I leave so easily?
His hands trembled as he gripped the ring tightly, knuckles white, veins bulging from the pressure.
Then he remembered the message from the family group chat—the link they were all asking about.
It had been sent by me. He hadn't even bothered to check it before.
He clicked it now, barely breathing.
A few seconds later, his expression relaxed slightly. The tension in his jaw eased.
On the screen was a wedding invitation.
His lips curled into a faint, relieved smile.
See? I was just trying to scare him.
Just a tantrum.
I wouldn't really leave.
But as the relief set in, so did irritation.
I had gone too far this time.
Too far.
When I came back, he swore, he would teach me a lesson. He would make me apologize, beg for forgiveness, and admit I'd gone too far.
But in the very next second, all his plans came to a crashing halt.
Because as his eyes scanned the wedding invitation more closely, he saw something that made his breath hitch—
The bride's name was Chloe.
For a moment, the room was dead silent.
Then, standing beside him, Chloe could no longer hide her glee.
A triumphant smile slowly crept across her face.
Clara had really given up.
Just then, his phone began to ring repeatedly.
One after another, the wedding venue coordinator, the photographer, and even the designer for their couple's wedding shoot called him.
Each of them politely congratulated him on the "corrected details" and wished him and "Miss Reeves" a joyful and blessed marriage.
Mark's face darkened. His fury exploded.
Without a word, he hurled his phone against the wall. It shattered on impact.
The sound echoed through the apartment like a gunshot.
Startled, Chloe let out a terrified scream and backed away, not daring to go near him again.
Meanwhile, I had just landed in Paris.
As I stepped into the arrivals hall, I froze in disbelief at the familiar figure standing with a sign bearing my name.
"Ethan?" I asked, stunned.
Ethan Vance smiled and extended a hand toward me. "Welcome to the team, Clara. It's great to have you on board."
Back in college, Ethan had been a top student—mature, brilliant, admired by everyone. After graduation, I heard he'd gone to Europe, eventually working for a top-tier firm. I never imagined I'd be working alongside him now.
"You turned down that scholarship all those years ago," he said as we walked toward the car. "Honestly, I thought I'd never get the chance to work with you again."
On the drive, Ethan chatted easily about our university days, his tone nostalgic.
Staring out the window of my new Paris apartment, my thoughts drifted. Years ago, I had turned down that scholarship without a second thought, all to stay by Mark's side. I had been so sure we would be together forever, that our love would be enough. I never dreamed eight years of devotion could fracture so completely.
That night, after finishing my first day, a message arrived from my former supervisor back home. He had attached security footage from the office, asking for my opinion.
Curious, I opened it.
The video showed Mark, his face a mask of rage, storming into the building. He was screaming at my supervisor, clearly demanding my whereabouts. When my boss refused to answer, Mark's temper flared. He lunged forward and grabbed him by the collar. Security guards had to intervene and physically drag him out.
I stared at the screen, stunned.
He must have discovered I was the one who had altered all the wedding invitations, changing the bride's name to Samantha. He likely saw it as a public humiliation and, unable to find me, had gone to blame my boss.
I immediately sent an apology to my supervisor, feeling guilty that he was dragged into my mess.
He didn't blame me. He only asked, "Do you plan on telling Mark that you've left the country?"
My fingers hovered over the screen for a long time.
Eventually, I replied:
[We've ended things. There's no reason to be in contact ever again.]
And with that, I immersed myself in my new role in Paris.
The work was challenging and satisfying. In just one week, I had already earned praise from our new client. Quentin was impressed. "Still as sharp as ever," he said with a warm grin. It felt good. I hadn't felt that kind of personal satisfaction in years.
One month passed.
I was at a corporate gala, mingling with colleagues, wine glass in hand, finally feeling at ease. A call came through from an unknown international number. I ignored it.
But just seconds later, the last person I ever wanted to see appeared in the doorway.
Mark.
His eyes were dark and possessive. He spotted me immediately and shoved his way through the crowd.
Before I could react, he seized my wrist.
"Clara, why didn't you answer my call?" he demanded.
The smile fell from my face. By now, he should have been on his honeymoon with Samantha.
"What are you doing here?" I asked coldly. "We've broken up, Mark. Let go."
I struggled, but he only tightened his grip, his fingers digging painfully into my skin.
"Break up? When did we break up? I never agreed to that."
I stared at him in disbelief.
Was he serious? This was the man who had blatantly flaunted his affair, who had let his childhood sweetheart wear the wedding dress I had chosen, eat the cake I had designed, and take my place in the ceremony I had poured my soul into. And he was the one refusing to accept the breakup?
I exhaled slowly, pushing down the tremor in my chest. "If this is about your pride, fine."
"If it makes you feel better, you can tell everyone you dumped me. I'll tell them you were the one who walked away. Will that satisfy you?"