But now, Rhys had tossed those vows aside. He was using my labor of love to impress Emily Fox.
How dare he.
Emily recoiled slightly, offering a polite, apologetic smile.
"I'm so sorry, Rhys. My skin is terribly sensitive. If it isn't pure wool from a designer brand, I break out in a rash. Especially with... synthetic blends like that."
Rhys froze, hand still outstretched. He didn't find her rejection rude. Instead, he apologized profusely.
"No, no, I wasn't thinking. A girl like you deserves designer brands, not... cheap, inferior goods."
My heart clenched. Inferior goods.
"I won't let this trash offend your eyes," he continued eagerly. "When your birthday comes, I'll get you something worthy."
With a smile, he tossed the gray scarf onto the ground without a second thought, like garbage.
As our car drove past, the tires rolled over it. The gray wool caught, twisted, ground into the dirty slush.
Just like my love—crushed completely clean.
Rhys sensed a gaze burning into him. He turned.
Through the tinted window, our eyes locked. I sat clutching my pregnant belly, my stare colder than the winter air.
Rhys stiffened. Guilt and shock flashed across his face.