I recognized it as Ophelia Hawke's jacket. Every time she left something behind, it seemed to ignite yet another one of our endless, heated arguments.
This time, I held my tongue and simply turned to the shop assistant to give her my phone number.
With an enthusiastic grin, she exclaimed, “What great timing! Your custom wedding dress and suit are ready for fitting.”
Before I could protest, Lucian, still fuming, had already entered the dressing room, his demeanor cold.
Ten minutes later, I stood in front of him, clad in a wedding dress.
He shot me a glance, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
“Tacky.”
I didn’t argue; instead, I asked the shop assistant to snap a picture for me.
Lucian’s expression shifted to one of impatience, and just as he was about to wrap his arm around me for a couple's shot, his phone rang.
It was the ringtone he had assigned to Ophelia.
With tears in her voice, she lamented the loss of her favorite jacket, promising that if a kind soul returned it, she would pledge her unwavering loyalty to them until death.
Once the call ended, Lucian walked off without a glance back, still in his clothes from earlier.