"Miss, why are you crying?" The voice by my ear grew faint again.

So, my prayers had been answered.

While the earth was shaking, Blake was celebrating the return of his long-lost love.

Of course, he was safe.

The diagnosis came back.

Acoustic trauma-induced deafness. Permanent damage.

The doctor fitted me with a hearing aid.

Finally, the sounds of the world returned, however tinny and strange.

Then one day, Blake showed up.

I was hobbling on crutches, every movement a monumental effort.

His brow furrowed the moment he saw my pathetic, broken state.

He placed an insulated container on the table, then strode over and swept me up into his arms.

My body went rigid.

He smelled of a perfume I didn't recognize.

He set me gently on the bed, his blue eyes brimming with guilt.

"Isadora, does your leg still hurt?"

“It’s all my fault. I should have protected you,” he said, his voice hoarse with self-reproach.

Those eyes, so sincere they were like honey-laced poison.

Bile rose in my throat.

"If I had been by your side during the earthquake, you wouldn't have had to endure this alone." He caressed my face, his fingertips cold.

He leaned down, intending to kiss me, just like he always had.

I turned my head away.

He froze.

"Really?" I asked quietly, meeting his gaze.

My throat was painfully dry.

"Then what were you doing when I was buried under the rubble?"

Blake’s gaze faltered, and he looked away, hiding a flicker of something unnatural in his eyes.

“Isadora, I know you're hurting,” he murmured, taking my hand. “I'm so, so sorry.”

“If you were truly sorry,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “you would have been here the day I was admitted.”

He fell silent.

The suffocating feeling in my chest grew heavier.

"When did Dahlia Greystone get back?"

At her name, Blake's expression shuttered.

“Why are you asking about her?” he shot back instinctively.

That defensive posture was a knife to my heart.

As if I were some kind of threat to his precious Dahlia.

Realizing his mistake, he immediately softened his tone.

"I'm sorry, Isadora, I shouldn't have used that tone."

He kissed the back of my hand. “You need to rest. Don't let someone who doesn't matter get to you.”

He picked up the insulated container and opened it.

The rich aroma of clam chowder wafted out.

Seeing him like this, my heart felt like it had been thrown into a meat grinder.

My voice was steady, but my hands were trembling.

“So, when you were setting off fireworks for her, ignoring dozens of my calls, was I just someone who ‘doesn't matter’ then, too?”

Blake's body stiffened.

His voice grew taut. "You know?"

“All of Los Angeles knows,” I replied evenly. “Everyone's wishing you two the best.”

Blake frowned and rushed to explain, "Isadora, it's not what you think! My friends asked me to go, and I didn't know it was her welcome party until I got there! The fireworks were a forfeit because I lost a game!"

He gesticulated wildly, like a terrible actor forgetting his lines.

“We’ve been in love for five years—we’re engaged! Please, Isadora, believe me. I love you!”

I stared silently at the bowl of clam chowder.

His voice, distorted and jarring through the hearing aid.

I let out a soft, shaky sigh, fighting back tears.

"Blake, it's been five years. You know perfectly well I'm allergic to shellfish."

The soup he brought me was made with clams.

Blake looked as if he'd been struck by lightning.

He slammed the lid back on, his movements frantic.

“I'm so sorry, Isadora. I've been so busy… my head's a mess.”

“I'll go make you something else. Okay?”

He squeezed my hand, his expression pleading.

I didn't answer.

My head was splitting.

He leaned over and kissed my forehead as if nothing was wrong.

“I know I messed up, darling,” his voice was a low, earnest murmur. “Just give me a little more time.”

"But don't worry, I'll be a good husband."

After the showdown with Blake, I was exhausted.

I wheeled myself toward the downstairs garden, desperate for a breath of fresh air.

On a bench in the hallway sat a familiar insulated container.

Identical to the one Blake had brought.

I wheeled myself over.

The door to the adjacent room was ajar.

A sultry voice, thick with a post-coital haze, drifted out.

“After all this time, you still remember clam chowder is my favorite.”

“That earthquake was terrifying, but getting to drink soup you made yourself? Totally worth it.”

I froze.

As if pulled by some invisible force, I edged closer to the door.

I recognized that familiar back. And then I heard his voice—the same one that had just been in my room, making all those solemn promises.

“You love fireworks, you love clam chowder… I remember everything about you.”

"So, now that you're back, don't ever leave me again."

In that instant, my heart didn't just break; it shattered into dust.

An icy chill spread from my chest through my limbs.

So, while I was buried under rubble, my life hanging by a thread, he was setting off fireworks for her.

He hadn't visited the hospital because she was here too.

He hadn’t forgotten my allergy; he’d simply been busy making her favorite clam chowder.

And I was just an afterthought, a quick stop on his way from taking care of his true love.

I decided to check myself out of the hospital, against the doctor's advice to take my hearing loss seriously.

I thanked him, then drafted an agreement to terminate our engagement.

Returning to our home in Malibu, I prepared to pack my things and leave.

Blake’s call came almost immediately. “Isadora, why did you check out of the hospital?”

I was pulling on my shoes, my voice pure ice as I answered. “Blake, we’re done.”

Silence, then a disbelieving roar. “Isadora, what the hell is that supposed to mean? Is this some kind of sick joke?”

I let out a hollow laugh. “I’m not joking. Come home and sign the papers.”

“You’re at the house?” His voice sharpened with an urgency that sent a chill of foreboding down my spine.

The next second, a slender figure emerged from our bedroom.

She had just woken up, her eyes drowsy.

She smelled of him. Tobacco, cologne, and… the musky scent of lovemaking.

“Blake, you’re back,” she cooed, her voice sickeningly sweet, not yet noticing who stood in the doorway.

I recognized her.

Dahlia Greystone.

To my own surprise, I was utterly calm.

“Get over here and deal with her,” I said into the phone.

I hung up, my hand shaking violently.

“Isadora Hawthorne?” The woman leaned against the doorframe, her eyes raking over me with contempt.

She tugged at the collar of my silk pajamas.

Her neck was a roadmap of angry red hickeys, trailing down to her collarbone.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you’d be home,” she purred. “Sleeping in your bed, wearing your pajamas… I hope you don’t mind.”

“These sheets are incredible,” she added with a smirk. “Feels amazing when he’s on top of me, messing them up.”

My mind was a complete blank.

An invisible hand squeezed my heart tightly.

Nausea surged up my throat.

They had been writhing in the bed we'd shared for years.

And she was wearing my pajamas, flaunting the marks he'd left on her.

Is the Carrington heir really too cheap to buy his mistress her own villa?

Or were they using me as a prop in their filthy game?

I fought back the urge to vomit and asked, "Did you know we were engaged?"

She arched a perfect eyebrow. “And did you know that the day I flew back was the day you two got engaged?”