His Regret, Her Sudden Marriage

For seven years, I hid my identity as a wealthy heiress to be with my boyfriend, Ewing. I followed him across the country and made myself small so he could feel big.

On Thanksgiving, he ditched our celebration for his first love, Bree, who supposedly had a "burst pipe."

Later, she posted an intimate selfie with him, calling him her "hero."

Then she sent me a video of him at a bar, laughing with his friends.

"She's just being dramatic," he slurred, smirking at the camera. "A new necklace and she'll forget all about it. She's easy."

Easy. Seven years of my life, my love, my sacrifice-all reduced to that one word. I realized I was never his partner. I was just a placeholder.

I didn't cry. I packed my bags, booked a one-way flight to New York, and sent him one final text before blocking his number.

"Don't bother coming home. I'm getting married."

Chapter 1

Haven Holden POV:

On Thanksgiving, after seven years together, my boyfriend, Ewing Hurley, ditched our planned celebration for his first love, Bree Campbell, who needed help with a "burst pipe."

The scent of roasted turkey, rich with rosemary and thyme, filled our small Denver apartment. It was supposed to be a warm, comforting smell, the kind that wraps around you like a hug. But today, it felt cloying, heavy with disappointment. I' d spent all morning preparing a feast for two: the turkey, a creamy green bean casserole just the way Ewing liked it, mashed potatoes whipped until they were fluffy clouds, and a pumpkin pie cooling on the counter, its spicy-sweet aroma a ghost of the celebration we were supposed to have.

Ewing was supposed to be here an hour ago.

I picked up my phone for the tenth time, my thumb hovering over his contact. No new messages. My last text, a simple "Everything okay?" sent forty-five minutes ago, remained unanswered. A familiar, cold knot tightened in my stomach. This wasn' t the first time. It wasn' t even the fifth. Whenever Bree Campbell called, Ewing ran.

I scrolled absently through my social media feed, a mindless habit to numb the growing unease. And then I saw it. A new post from Bree.

My breath caught in my throat.

The picture was a selfie, taken in a steamy bathroom mirror. Bree was laughing, her head tilted just so, a smudge of what looked like grease on her cheek. Behind her, out of focus but unmistakable, was Ewing. He was on his knees, working on the pipes under her sink, his back to the camera. The angle was suggestive, intimate. He was wearing the gray henley I bought him for his birthday last month.

Her caption was the final twist of the knife. "My hero! Came to rescue me from a Thanksgiving flood. Some people just get it. #BurstPipe #ThanksgivingKnight #BetterThanTurkey"

My hero.

The casual intimacy of the photo, the proprietary way she claimed him, it all felt like a performance designed for an audience of one: me. The winking emoji wasn' t just a flirtatious jab; it was a declaration of victory.

In the photo, Ewing turned his head slightly, and even though it was blurry, I could see the smile on his face. It was the soft, unguarded smile he rarely gave me anymore-the one I' d fallen in love with seven years ago. A smile that now felt like it belonged to someone else.

My hands didn't shake. My eyes didn't fill with tears. A strange, glacial calm washed over me. The years of excuses, the late-night calls, the "we' re just friends" reassurances-they all clicked into place, forming a picture as clear and devastating as the one on my screen. I wasn' t his partner. I was his placeholder. A convenient, less-intimidating version of the woman he' d always wanted.

I took a deep breath, the smell of turkey now making me nauseous. I picked up my phone and sent a single text to Ewing.

"We' re done."

Then, I opened my contacts and dialed a number I hadn' t called in months.

"Dad?" I said, my voice steady. "I' m coming home."

A few seconds later, my phone buzzed. It was Ewing.

"What' s that supposed to mean? Don' t be dramatic, Haven."

Another buzz.

"I' m almost done here. Bree' s making me a sandwich. I' ll be home in an hour, and you can tell me what' s wrong. Don' t start without me."

He thought this was a game. He thought I was throwing a tantrum, that I' d be waiting with a plate of warm food and a forced smile, ready to be placated with a kiss and a half-hearted apology. He always believed he could win me back, that my love for him was an endless, renewable resource he could tap into whenever he pleased.

For seven years, I had let him believe it. I had convinced myself that my patience, my unwavering support, was a sign of strength. I followed him to Denver, leaving my family and a promising career in New York behind. I took a low-profile job as a drafter at a small architectural firm, hiding my background as the heiress to the Holden Properties empire, all so I wouldn' t intimidate him, so he could feel like the successful one.

I had made myself small to fit into his world.

But I wasn' t going to be small anymore. I wasn' t going to be easily appeased.

I didn' t reply to his texts. The silence stretched, and I knew he wouldn' t think anything of it. He was with Bree. He wouldn' t be thinking of me at all.

An hour later, my phone pinged with a notification, but it wasn' t from Ewing. It was a video message. From Bree.

My finger hesitated over the play button before a cold sense of finality pushed it down.

The video was shaky, clearly filmed on a phone. It was a recording of a video call. Bree' s face was in a small window in the corner, looking smug. The main screen showed Ewing, sitting in what looked like a bar with a couple of his friends. He was laughing, a beer in his hand.

"So she really said 'we' re done' ?" one of his friends asked, slurring his words slightly.

Ewing took a long swallow of his beer and shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. "You know how she gets. She' s just being dramatic, wants some attention. It' s Thanksgiving. She' s probably upset I' m not there to praise her cooking."

The friends laughed.

"You' re not going to even call her?"

"Nah," Ewing said, shaking his head. "Can' t indulge this kind of behavior. She needs to learn. She' ll cool down. She always does." He then looked directly into the camera of his laptop, his eyes finding Bree' s. A genuine, warm smile spread across his face. "Besides, I' m busy."

He reached out and gently touched the screen, as if he could stroke her cheek through the pixels.

His friends started hooting. "Just get with Bree already, man! It' s obvious you' re still hung up on her."

"Yeah, dump the copy and get the original!"

Bree giggled, a prim, practiced sound. "Don' t say that, guys. Ewing needs to go home and make up with Haven. It' s not right." Her words were a flimsy shield for the triumphant glint in her eyes.

Ewing' s smile softened even more. He shook his head again, his gaze locked on Bree. "Don' t worry about it. She' ll be fine. A new necklace or a weekend trip, and she' ll forget all about it. She' s easy."

The video ended.

A sour taste filled my mouth. Easy. That' s what he thought of me. Seven years of love, of sacrifice, of building a life together, and it all boiled down to that one, dismissive word.

My mind flashed back to the day we met. I was a freshman in college, he was a sophomore. He was standing on the library steps, sunlight catching in his dark hair, laughing at something a friend said. I was instantly, irrevocably smitten. I spent a month working up the courage to talk to him, finally confessing my crush in a flustered, rambling speech outside the architecture building.

I remember the exact moment. The way he looked at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, before a slow smile spread across his face. He reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "Actually," he'd said, his voice a low rumble, "I was just about to ask you out." He had gently ruffled my hair, a gesture that would become his signature move, a sign of affection that always made my heart flutter.

I thought I would remember that moment forever, that it was the perfect, beautiful start to our love story.

Now, the memory felt tainted, like a photograph left out in the sun, its colors faded and distorted.

The first crack appeared a year into our relationship. We were in bed, tangled in the sheets after making love, and in that hazy, blissful aftermath, he whispered a name against my skin. "Bree."

The name hung in the air between us, cold and sharp. It was the first time we' d ever had a real fight, the first time I felt the icy grip of insecurity. We didn' t speak for three days. He finally broke the silence, showing up at my dorm with a bouquet of my favorite lilies and a small, silver locket. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes.

"She' s just someone I had a crush on in high school," he' d explained, his voice rough with fatigue. "She rejected me. It meant nothing, Haven. You' re the one I' m with."

I saw the weariness in his face, and my anger melted into pity. I loved him. I wanted to believe him. So I did. I accepted the locket, let him pull me into his arms, and we never spoke of it again.

I had been so confident then. So sure that Bree Campbell was just a ghost from his past, a shadow that couldn't possibly touch the bright, solid reality of our love. I believed I was his present, his future. I never realized I was just an echo of his past.

For four years of college, my love for him was pure and all-consuming. I helped him with his projects, typed his papers, and celebrated his successes as if they were my own. When he decided to move to Denver after graduation, I didn' t hesitate. I fought with my family, turned my back on the life they had planned for me, and followed him without a second thought. My father' s words still echoed in my ears: "Haven, love should not require you to erase yourself." I had thought he was being dramatic. Now I saw he was just being honest.

He had been good to me, in his own way. He remembered my coffee order, bought me flowers on our anniversary, and told me he loved me before we went to sleep. He promised we' d get married, that we' d build our dream house together, that every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year' s would be ours. I clung to those promises, building my entire world upon them.

It wasn' t until Bree moved back to the States six months ago that the foundation began to crumble. The late-night calls started. The canceled dates. The holidays spent apart because Bree had a "crisis."

And now I knew the truth. His confession to me on the library steps wasn't a spontaneous moment of affection; it was a calculated move to soothe the sting of Bree's rejection. The way he treated me, the things he bought me, the places he took me-it was all a rehearsal. He was practicing on me, perfecting the role of the devoted boyfriend for the day the real star of his show decided to return. My favorite flowers were her favorite flowers. The restaurant he took me to for my twenty-first birthday was the same one he' d planned to take her to for prom.

I was just a stand-in. A tool to pass the time until his true love was available again.

And his promises? Marriage? Holidays together? He probably didn't even remember making them.

He had forgotten. But I hadn't.

My father' s long-standing proposition echoed in my mind. A marriage of convenience, an alliance between two powerful families. With Kasen Coleman. I barely knew him, but I knew his reputation. Brilliant, ruthless, the self-made CEO of Vanguard Innovations. Our families had been trying to set us up for years. I had always refused, blinded by my love for Ewing.

But now, the idea didn' t seem so bad. It was a clean break. A new life. A future where I would never again have to wonder if I was second best.

My phone buzzed again, dragging me back to the present. It was a text from an unknown number.

"Haven, this is Ewing. Why did you block me? Stop this ridiculous game. I' m coming home now and we are going to talk this out."

I stared at the message, a bitter smile touching my lips.

He still didn' t get it. He still thought he was in control.

I typed a final reply, my fingers moving with a speed and certainty that felt foreign.

"Don' t bother. By the time you get here, I' ll be gone. I' m going back to New York. To get married."

This time, I didn't wait for his response. I powered off my phone and tossed it onto the couch.

It was over. For real this time.