As if the man who'd just casually announced he'd married another woman wasn't him. As if the man who'd sat here, drunk on the memory of tangled limbs in my seat, was someone else entirely.
The sheer absurdity of it crashed over me, tearing me apart.
I couldn't breathe.
He sighed, as though I were being unreasonable. "I know it doesn't feel great, but she's sensitive. If I show up at the wedding, she'll cry for sure. She's not like other women. She's innocent, kept herself pure. All she wants is someone faithful. I chased her for six months and she gave me her first time. I owe her that much. You've always been understanding. I know you get it, right?"
Six months.
Our wedding had also been six months in the making.
So while he'd been handpicking every detail for me—the venue, the flowers, the invitations, everything exactly the way I liked—he'd also been pouring every ounce of energy into bedding another woman behind my back.
I curled my frozen fingers inward and closed my eyes, numb.
"You married someone else. We're done."
He blinked. Then laughed softly. "Don't say things you don't mean."