“Adeline, it’s Zara… her depression flared up again, her emotions are unstable. I’m afraid she’ll harm herself, so I must go to her. As for the wedding, I’ll leave it to you to arrange. Don’t worry about money, make everything the best.”
I looked at his performance of ‘helplessness’ wrapped in ‘ardent care,’ and nausea twisted in my gut.
I stayed silent, only nodding faintly.
Soon after, Zara’s Instagram Story updated, her location tagged at a sunlit resort abroad.
She posed in a bikini, smiling radiantly, fingers raised in a V-sign. Behind her, the half-shown profile of a man was unmistakable: Tatum, who had just claimed he rushed to “save” her.
A few minutes later, Tatum’s message came.
[Adeline, there’s an urgent project at the company. I need to travel for five days. The meetings are highly confidential, so contact may be difficult. Don’t worry, I’ll be back before the wedding. Love you.]
I stared at the word “love” and let out a faint, bitter laugh. What greater mockery could there be?
I gave no reply. Instead, I opened the stack of wedding invitations, filled them out carefully, and mailed them, both to those close to me and to those I barely knew.