Lies. The words were as hollow as the promises that had once made me believe in forever.
Almost immediately, another message arrived—this one from Evelyn. Her words were sharp, dripping with malice.
“Big sister, stop flattering yourself. Do you really think he’ll come back for you? He doesn’t love you anymore.” She continued, “You’re thirty-five. Old. Fat. Barren. Why don’t you just pack up and leave? He’s mine now. All I have to do is crook my finger and he’s at my feet.”
Attached were photos—her and Harry on a shopping spree. They stood at the counter, his hand brushing hers as he purchased an evening gown. The same gown I had admired months ago but deemed too extravagant. For her, he threw down ten million without hesitation.
I stared at the images, numb, my heart a fortress of scar tissue. Ignoring her provocations, I turned away, bandaging my hands from the wounds I had inflicted on myself in my grief.
The days blurred together after that. Harry never came home. Occasionally, he sent brief, detached messages about business trips and work emergencies.