Maybe this whole wedding was a joke from the very beginning. Did she really think I’d always endure it—just because I loved her?
Fine. Let’s see how far you’ll take this farce.
The next morning, Dorian was still snoring on our couch when Elara and I left for the island honeymoon we’d booked months ago.
At the ocean-view villa, Elara hugged me from behind, her chin resting on my shoulder.
“We could live like this every day. Isn’t it wonderful?”
I was about to turn and answer her—when her phone rang. She slipped out of my arms and rushed into the bedroom to answer it.
Through dinner, her phone never stopped lighting up. Dorian’s name filled the screen, message after message:
“Elara, I’ve got a fever. No one’s here to take care of me. Can you video call and teach me how to make ginger soup?”
“The ocean view you posted is gorgeous. A shame I’m not there with you. So lonely.”
Then came the photo: Dorian, sprawled in bed, wearing the very lace camisole Elara had once claimed was “too small for me, so I gave it to him.” His caption read:
‘This little thing you gave me feels just like you’re here with me~’
My chest tightened. “He’s a grown man. How the hell can he post something like that?”