Andrew stared at her.
“What?”
She opened her purse and pulled out a small envelope.
“I came to take the marriage license before you signed it.”
That was what she had shoved into her purse.
“I couldn’t let him do this again,” she said.
Andrew’s phone rang in her purse once more.
His name appeared because Clementine still had his old number saved under “Andrew.”
He had been calling from a new phone she had secretly registered for him.
I stepped toward the door.
Andrew followed.
“Davina, please. I was scared.”
I turned around.
“So was I.”
He stopped.
“I was scared every morning when I woke up and remembered you were gone. I was scared when I packed away our wedding invitations. I was scared when I realized I couldn’t remember your voice without playing old videos.”
My throat burned.
“But I stayed.”
Andrew’s eyes dropped.
“You ran.”
I walked back into Elowen’s reception and found my uncle, who was a retired police officer.
Within minutes, hotel security was involved.
Then the police came.
There were questions about Callum’s death, the false identification, insurance documents, and everything Andrew had done afterward.
I gave my statement.
So did Clementine.
Freya left before Andrew did.
She carried her wedding dress over one arm.
Three months earlier, I had believed losing Andrew was the worst thing that could happen to me.
I was wrong.
The worst thing was discovering that the man I loved had chosen to let me grieve him.
But that discovery also gave me something his funeral never had.
An ending.
When I left the hotel that night, I passed a mirror near the lobby.
For months, I had barely recognized the woman looking back at me.
That night, I did.
I was still grieving.
Just not for Andrew anymore.
I was grieving the life I thought we had.
And for the first time, I knew I could let it go.
So here is the real question: When the man you mourned turns out to be alive, do you listen to why he let you bury him, or walk away before he can break you twice?
