Part 1He Rejected Me on Our Anniversary, But He Doesn't Know I'm Dying

On our third anniversary, I put on a wedding dress and asked Liam to marry me.

His face went cold. He told me to stop screwing around.

I wiped away a tear and managed a smile.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, Liam.”

“But… I’m dying. You might want to start looking for my replacement.”

He told me I was sick in the head, then slammed the door on his way out.

But I wasn’t kidding.

I really am dying.

* * *

I’d been with Liam Carter for three years, and for three years, he spoiled me rotten.

If it weren’t for the bubble of his affection, I don’t think I could have lasted this long.

I remember the first time he took me to a party with his friends. He’d only been gone, off to the restroom, for a few minutes before the whispers started.

They said Liam moved on too fast. That his wife, Annabelle, had barely been gone before he found a new plaything. They said I was from the wrong side of the tracks, that I couldn’t hold a candle to the woman he’d lost.

Everyone in that room was dripping with old money and Ivy League degrees. I didn’t want to make trouble for Liam. So I just stared at my lap and said nothing. I let them talk.

When Liam came back, he knew instantly that something was wrong. He found my hand under the table and gave it a tight squeeze.

“What is it? Who upset you?”

The wall I’d built around my feelings, the one I thought was so strong, crumbled at the gentle timber of his voice. I couldn’t hold it back anymore.

I snatched my hand away, fighting to keep the tears from spilling over.

“It’s nothing. The AC is just blasting in here. I’m freezing.”

He watched me for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then he stood, took his jacket from the back of his chair, and draped it over my shoulders. He took my hand again, this time lacing his fingers through mine, a silent declaration on top of the polished mahogany table.

Across from us, a younger guy with a smirk couldn't help himself. He lifted his bourbon, swirled it, and took a theatrical sniff.

“Wow,” he said loudly. “Smells like some serious drama in here.”

A few others snickered. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, the shame so hot I just wanted to disappear.

“Liam, I think I need to use the restroom…”

But he held my hand tighter, refusing to let go.

His eyes swept across the table, finally landing on the self-appointed comedian.

“Caleb,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “Apologize to Stella.”