Chapter 1The kitchen counters in the new place were way too low.
I asked my fiancé if they got the measurements wrong.
He texted back: [You're not cooking every day. You'll get used to it.]
But I'm five-seven.
How am I supposed to get used to counters that look like they were made for someone who's five feet tall??
That's when one of the construction workers spoke up:
"Can't be wrong. Mr. Hayes was here three times making sure we got it exactly right."
"Said his sister's five-two. Counter any higher and she can't reach when she's baking."
So that's how it is.
He KNEW what he was doing.
Just our place was never built for ME to begin with.
I pulled off the matching bracelet Beckett gave me and tossed it in with the construction trash.
Then I called my realtor.
"The new place. List it today. I need it sold fast."
...
I was still on the phone when I heard him walk up.
Before I could turn around, Beckett put his arms around me.
"Who's got you this mad?"
He touched my hair, I pulled away and stepped back.
"You think I can actually use that kitchen?"
Beckett looked where I was looking and sighed.
Then pulled out a jewelry box from his coat.
Inside was a diamond necklace, shiny as hell in the empty room.
"Was gonna give you this tonight."
He put the box in my hand and rubbed his thumb across my knuckles.
"Sloane moved around a lot when she was younger. Never really had her own place."
"If she can come over sometimes, she'll feel better."
"Babe, you're gonna be Mrs. Hayes soon. Don't fight with a kid."
I heard heels clicking closer.
Sloane came around the corner holding a baking pan, eyes already red.
"Beck, did I make her upset?"
Her voice got quieter.
"Maybe I should just go back to that basement I was staying in. This place is way too nice for me."
Beckett grabbed her wrist right away.
"Who said you're leaving?"
He looked at me.
"Babe, she just wants to bake sometimes. The kitchen's not only yours."
"Then who's the woman of this house?"
Beckett looked tired.
"Why does that even matter?"
He took the jewelry box and lifted my hair.
Right when the cold necklace touched my neck, I stopped his hand.
"Change it back to my height."
His hand stopped.
"Tearing everything out costs tens of thousands. You barely cook. It's a waste."
"So you're not gonna change it?"
"I'll just hire you a chef."
He ignored my question and threw money at it instead.
I took the necklace from him, put it back in the box, and pushed it against his chest.
"You two have your whole sibling thing going. She can have the house."
Something finally cracked on Beckett's face.
"Ivy, don't say stuff you don't mean."
"I mean it."
I walked toward the door. When I passed the bag of trash, I stopped for a second.
Part of the bracelet was sticking out.
Beckett saw it.
He bent down and picked it up, brushed the dust off. His voice went flat.
"You threw this out too?"
"When something's broken, why keep it?"
Beckett's jaw tightened.
He closed his hand around the bracelet but kept his other hand near Sloane.
I walked out.
Right before the elevator closed, his voice followed me.
"I'll pick you up tonight. We need to talk."
Chapter 2
Next morning at work, the receptionist brought in a huge bouquet.
10001 Juliet roses.
The smell was so strong it was almost too much.
The card had Beckett's handwriting.
[Something came up last night, couldn't come get you. Don't be mad. This weekend we'll go pick out a new kitchen.]
I stared at "pick out a new." My hand stopped.
He knew I was upset.
If he'd just fix the measurements, maybe last night wouldn't feel so humiliating.
My phone lit up. Sloane posted something.
In the photo, she was wearing my wedding dress—the one I waited eight months for.
She was spinning in front of a mirror.
The skirt was all over the floor.
The waist was pinned tight.
The top obviously didn't fit.
Her caption said:
[Beck says the dress fits me better. He wants me to wear it as maid of honor. First time wearing something this pretty. Feels like a dream.]
I zoomed in.
In the corner of the mirror was Beckett's reflection.
He was sitting on the couch, fixing the handmade lace.
Last year in Paris when we did the fitting, the designer asked what mattered most about my dress.
Beckett put his arms around me and said:
"It has to be one of a kind."
"My bride can't look like anyone else."
Now that one-of-a-kind dress was something his maid of honor could borrow.
I called the bridal shop.
The manager sounded uncomfortable.
"Miss Winters, Mr. Hayes brought Miss Lincoln in."
"He said you already agreed to let the maid of honor try it on."
"He also had us take in the waist by like an inch and a half."
"Can you undo it?"
Quiet on the other end.
"We already took apart the hand-stitched part. Even if we fix it, you'll see the needle holes."
I looked at the apology card on my desk and folded it in half.
"Keep the dress."
"Bill Mr. Hayes for what's left. Send me written proof by email."
After I hung up, I took the roses to the break room and shoved them in the trash.
They were too big. Wouldn't fit.
I pressed down hard.
A thorn stabbed my finger and made it bleed a little.
The first time Beckett gave me flowers, he cut off every thorn.
He said my hands were for work—they couldn't get hurt.
Now the flowers were still expensive.
He just forgot to cut the thorns.
That afternoon, my realtor messaged me.
Someone wanted the condo.
They'd pay 10% over asking, all cash, as long as I could close in three days.
I said yes.
A month ago, the West Coast office offered me a job.
I said no because the wedding was coming and Beckett didn't want long distance.
Yesterday they reached out again. The job was still there.
I said yes too.
When I left work, Beckett's Maybach was out front.
He saw me and opened the passenger door.
"What happened to your hand?"
He grabbed my wrist and avoided the little cut.
"Your flowers scratched me."
Beckett's face got hard.
"That shop's getting lazy. I'll have my assistant find another one."
I pulled my hand back.
"Why'd you let Sloane wear my wedding dress?"
"She's never worn one. She was just curious."
"You told them to take it in."
"Babe."
Beckett lowered his voice.
"She's the maid of honor. She'd have to try it eventually. Your dress was a little loose anyway. We were gonna adjust it before the wedding."
"Adjust it for her?"
"We'll fix it back before the ceremony."
He said it like it was no big deal.
Like fabric that got ripped apart and resewn, like a spot that got handed over and taken back, could just go back to normal.
I looked at him.
"Fix the kitchen. Order a new dress. And Sloane's not gonna be my maid of honor."
Beckett didn't say anything for a few seconds.
"I'll fix the kitchen. I'll get a new dress."
He opened the car door.
"But Sloane already told people she's doing it."
"If we replace her now, it'll look bad."
He'd spend tens of thousands redoing cabinets.
He'd drop six figures on another dress.
He just wouldn't take away something that was never hers.
"There's a dinner tonight."
"Just our usual people. I already told them—no one's allowed to joke about the last few days. They're only toasting the bride-to-be."
"The bride-to-be?"
"Yeah."
He leaned in to do my seatbelt. I could smell his cologne.
"The wedding's still happening."
I looked at his face right there and didn't tell him.
That dress wasn't getting altered back.
That condo—I wasn't moving back in.
And this bride-to-be?
She wasn't gonna be his bride.
Chapter 3
Dinner was at Beckett's usual private club.
Before we went in, he took my hand and rubbed his thumb across it.
"Don't drink tonight. Your stomach can't handle it."
The room was full of people we knew.
Someone joked about us finally getting married.
Beckett smiled slightly.
Pulled out my chair and poured me warm water himself.
When they brought the fish, he picked out the bones and put the best piece on my plate.
"They're redoing the counters tomorrow."
His voice was quiet.
"And I put down a deposit on a new dress."
"Stop throwing stuff away, okay?"
My fingers touched the glass. It felt warm.
These past few years, he was really good to me.
The year my dad died, I couldn't sleep for months.
Beckett canceled plans and walked with me by the river every night.
He never told me to get over it.
He just turn around and carry me home, when I got too tired,
Back then I thought the person who stayed through the worst days would stay forever.
A server brought dessert. That snapped me out of it.
Sloane grabbed a plate and pushed it in front of me.
"They just started making peanut pudding here. Beck ordered it special for you."
My hand froze.
Beckett was still peeling shrimp. He looked up and smiled.
"Sloane waited in line forever this afternoon. Try it."
A few people already had their spoons out. Nobody noticed.
I'm really allergic to nuts.
The first time it happened was our second year together.
Beckett carried me to the ER while I couldn't breathe.
His whole arm was shaking.
After that, he checked every ingredient.
He even asked restaurants if they shared cutting boards.
But tonight, he told me to try it.
"You forgot?"
Beckett frowned and looked at the dessert.
Sloane's hand tightened on her spoon.
"You don't like it? But Beck said you love sweets."
Beckett finally seemed to get it. He reached for the plate.
"Don't eat it. I'll get you something else."
I stood up. My elbow hit the plate.
It spilled over the table. The dish hit the floor and broke. The whole room went quiet.
"Ivy."
Beckett stood up too.
"Did it get on you?"
He reached for me. I grabbed my coat and moved back, heading for the door.
At the end of the hall, he caught up and blocked me.
"Tonight was my bad."
"Who ordered it?"
"Sloane picked the menu."
"Did you check it?"
He didn't answer. His tone changed.
"I've been trying to make this easy for you. Everyone in there knows us. You knock over a dish and walk out—what's that supposed to make Sloane look like?"
I clenched my fists.
"What about me? Because I'm Mrs. Hayes. I'm supposed to be the bigger person, right?"
"Nobody's gonna think bad about you. You're overthinking."
Beckett rubbed his forehead, trying not to sound annoyed.
"I said I'd redo the kitchen. I said I'd get a new dress. I'm handling EVERYTHING you asked."
"Tonight was just an accident. Stop making it about Sloane."
"I'm tired."
I didn't fight anymore.
"Go back in. I'm going home."
Beckett's face softened.
He tucked my hair behind my ear.
"Text me when you get there. I'll pick you up in the morning to look at the new counters."
I nodded. He went back inside.
Through the closing door, I saw Sloane sitting next to his spot, eyes red, staring at him.
Beckett bent down, grabbed a tissue, and handed it to her.
I walked out.
But didn't go back to our usual place.
The cab stopped at my old apartment—the one I hadn't been to in two years.
The lock was dusty but inside everything was the same.
I got out a suitcase and packed light.
Just my documents, laptop, and some clothes.
The stuff Beckett gave me over the years—clothes, bags, jewelry—I didn't smash them or throw them out.
I left them there, made a list, and sent it to my lawyer.
At one in the morning, Beckett texted.
[Sloane's doing better. Picking you up at eight. Don't oversleep.]
I opened the text box.
My finger hung there for a while.
Then I just backed out of the chat and canceled tomorrow's appointment with the counter people.
