When I came to, the harsh lights of a hospital room greeted me. My party dress had been replaced with a sterile gown. Brian sat on the sofa nearby, his suit jacket draped loosely over his shoulders as he rested, his expression unreadable.
For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to admire him—the gentle curve of his jawline, the quiet strength in his posture. But that love, as deep and consuming as it was, had only ever brought me misery. He had been forced to marry me and perhaps that was the root of it all.
A sob bubbled up from my chest as I whispered, “Brian, let’s divorce.”
Even in his sleep, his brows furrowed as if my words had reached him. But I couldn’t stay any longer. I needed to reclaim whatever dignity I had left. Carefully, I slipped out of bed and walked away.
***
Three days passed in silence. I ignored every call from Brian and focused solely on my plan. I stayed in a hotel, waiting for the divorce papers to arrive, drowning my thoughts in the anonymity of the quiet room. Eventually, I turned off my phone, unwilling to face anything that reminded me of him.