I was twenty-three when Antony Weiss knelt before me, ninety-nine roses cradled in his arms, and asked me to marry him.

That's when my phone rang. No caller ID.

"Patsy Cox, it's you—ten years from now. Whatever you do, don't marry Antony Weiss. He's going to cheat on you. He's going to break you. You'll end up divorced!"

My hand froze mid-reach, suspended over the bouquet. My mind went blank.

There was no way. Antony had nearly died saving me from that fire five years ago. He loved me more than life itself. How could the man kneeling before me now become someone who'd sign divorce papers in ten years?

I shook my head with a small, incredulous laugh and reached for the flowers. The voice on the phone rose to a shriek.

"Patsy! Listen to me! Don't marry him—you'll regret it!"

My fingers hesitated. My gaze drifted to the scar on his arm—that ridge of ruined skin, branded there forever—then lifted to meet his eyes. Eyes that held oceans of devotion.

My lips curved upward. "I won't regret it."

——

I took the roses. His arms wrapped around me, warm and solid and safe.

A soft kiss brushed the corner of my mouth. Antony's voice trembled against my ear. "Who was that on the phone? You looked so serious for a second—I thought you were going to say no. God, you scared me." He exhaled shakily. "Thank God you said yes."

I stiffened for just a heartbeat, then shrugged it off. "Nobody important. Why would you be scared? We love each other. Unless you've done something unforgivable, why would I ever turn you down?"

He pinched my cheek, tender and teasing, his eyes brimming with an almost violent adoration.

"That would never happen. You know you're my whole world. I'd die for you before I'd ever betray you."

Something in the certainty of his gaze loosened the knot in my chest. I felt suddenly ashamed for even entertaining the doubt. That ridiculous phone call had gotten into my head, that was all.

Antony really did love me more than life.

After the college entrance exams, I'd gone to a karaoke bar with friends to celebrate. Then the fire broke out.

By the time Antony arrived, the blaze was out of control. Firefighters tried to hold him back. He shoved past them anyway, plunging into the inferno to carry my smoke-dazed body out of the flames.

He'd wrapped his jacket around me to shield me. The fire took its price from his skin instead—that jagged, angry scar seared into his arm.

The guilt had eaten at me for five years. I'd tried everything to fade that scar, to give him back the skin he'd sacrificed. Nothing worked.

But he'd only smiled and said, "Why would I want it gone? This is proof that I loved you enough to risk my life. I'm keeping it forever."

I used to wear his scar like a badge of honor.

I pressed my lips to that ridge of damaged flesh and smiled, content. "I believe you."

By the time I got home, I'd forgotten all about the strange call.

I sat at my vanity, reaching for makeup remover, when the phone rang again.

I frowned. Let it ring. Five times. Ten. Finally, reluctantly, I picked up.

An angry voice exploded through the speaker.

"Patsy! Why did you say yes? Why won't you believe me?"

"Why should I believe you?"

A pause. Then she recited our phone passcodes—mine and Antony's. The ones only the two of us knew.

My thoughts scattered like shattered glass. This was impossible. This couldn't be real.

The voice on the other end softened, threaded with desperate hope.

"Do you believe me now?"

I was silent for a long moment. When I finally spoke, my voice was measured. "Even if you are who you say you are—what makes you so sure Antony will betray me? We've been in love for five years. He's had plenty of women chasing him, women more accomplished and more beautiful than me. If he was going to stray, he would've done it already. He wouldn't wait a decade."

"That's because the woman who'll change everything hasn't appeared yet. When she does, he won't hesitate. He'll leave you. He'll destroy you—"

"So did you change?" I cut her off. "If you'd stayed the way you were when he fell for you, would he have strayed?"

The thirty-three-year-old me went still. Her ragged breathing turned to tremors.

I changed. My looks faded. I became naggy, calculating, snapping at him for no reason. But my love for him never wavered.

He's the one who changed. Impatient. No longer indulgent. Forgetting our anniversary...

Patsy, we're just ordinary women. When you reach my age, you'll understand—I can't be as carefree as you are now.

Take my advice. End it. The deeper you love him today, the worse he'll destroy you tomorrow. Antony Weiss isn't worth it...

"No—he is worth it!"

The words tore out of me before I could stop them.

"He's the only person in this world who loves me as much as my parents do!"

"He learned to bake little cakes just for me! He stayed up night after night when I was sick, never leaving my bedside! He recorded his voice as my custom ringtone! He carried me on his back to the mountaintop to watch the sunrise! He ran into a fire to save me, risking his own life!"

"That love was real. You lived it yourself. How can you say he isn't worth it—"

But he murdered your child.

I froze.

Something wrenched at my heart—a slow, unraveling ache.

My voice came out shaking. "What did you say?"

Through the phone, I heard her—the thirty-three-year-old me—her teeth chattering faintly.

Do you want to hear it, Patsy? Do you want to know what Antony Weiss becomes in ten years?

I said nothing.

I just listened as she began to speak, her voice growing eerily calm.

The thirty-three-year-old me told the twenty-three-year-old me everything.

Five years into our marriage, Antony and I sponsored a college student from a poor family. Penelope Cooley.

She was eighteen. Shy as a mimosa, blushing whenever she spoke to me, too timid to even glance at Antony.

Beyond the monthly living stipend, we barely kept in touch.

After she graduated and the sponsorship ended, we had even less contact—just the occasional holiday greeting, polite and perfunctory.

I thought she'd just be a passing figure in my life.

I never imagined that when I was discharged from the hospital after my miscarriage, I'd pass a room with its door half-open—

And see Antony inside.

The woman in the bed was Penelope Cooley.

Their fingers were intertwined. He gazed at her swollen belly with a tenderness I hadn't seen in years.

I stood paralyzed, my mind unable to process the explosion of information. And then the next words sent me plummeting into the abyss.

"Eight months now. Our baby will be here soon." His voice was soft, reverent. "Penelope, I can't stop thinking about it—a tiny, soft little thing, sweet and gentle like you. It makes my heart race."

A coy, blissful smile spread across Penelope's face. She guided his hand to her rounded belly.

"The baby's excited to meet Daddy too. It's just..." She paused, worry clouding her brow. "Our child won't have a legitimate name. Just a bastard..."

"No." Antony cut her off gently. "Patsy's surgery is done. I'll talk to her today. Before the baby comes, we'll be legally married."

Penelope's expression turned guilt-stricken. "Antony... if Patsy ever finds out her miscarriage wasn't an accident, will she hate me?"

He kissed her cheek, soothing. "I won't let her find out. And even if she does—it was my idea. I'll never let anyone hurt you..."

Slap.

The folder slipped from my fingers and hit the floor.

I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move.

All this time, I'd believed it was something I ate—food poisoning that caused the miscarriage.

For days, I'd been drowning in self-blame and guilt.

I didn't even dare complain when Antony said he was too busy to pick me up from the hospital.

But the truth—it sliced me apart like shards of glass.

What a joke.

Their child was eight months along. Almost ready to enter this world, to be adored and cherished by parents who loved it more than anything.

My child had been eight weeks. Murdered by its own father.

Reputation... divorce... not an accident...

The words exploded in my head like thunder.

My mind had rusted over. I stood there in a daze, and they didn't even notice me at first.

My body felt nailed to the floor. I couldn't run if I tried.

They sprang apart like they'd been electrocuted. Antony's eyes locked onto me, panic flickering across his face.

"What—what are you doing here?"

What am I doing here?

I wanted to laugh. I couldn't.

Wasn't he the reason I was in this godforsaken place?

Penelope's face went white. Tears welled in her eyes as her arms tightened around Antony's waist.

I suddenly remembered—last year, he'd gone out of his way to arrange an internship for her.

I'd found it odd. He never paid attention to the students he sponsored. Why the sudden generosity?

She's just a pitiful girl, he'd said. It was no trouble.

Right. No trouble at all to bring her into his bed.

I forced my voice steady, though it shook. "Antony, I'll give you the divorce. But why did you have to kill my child?"

He looked at me. Something flickered in his eyes—something that might have been regret.

"I'm sorry, Patsy. If you'd given birth, we'd still be tied together. Penelope is sensitive. She couldn't handle it. I needed to put her mind at ease."

The words hit me like lightning. My blood ran cold, then reversed course entirely.

I lunged forward, desperate to grab Penelope, to demand answers. Why did my child have to die for your peace of mind?

She shrank back, sobbing. "I'm sorry, Patsy! I just love him so much—I only wanted my baby to have all of its father's love—"

I threw myself at her. Antony yanked her behind him and shoved me away.

"Patsy! Enough!"

"Look at yourself! You're not worth a tenth of her! What did I ever see in you?!"

I stared at Penelope. That face—twenty-something, radiant, blooming with youth. And mine at thirty-three: sallow, hollowed out, worn to the bone.

The fight drained out of me. All that remained was a bleak, endless wasteland where my heart used to be.

I sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the muffled sobs coming through the phone.

In the vanity mirror across the room, my young face wavered like a mirage.

But the expression it wore—grief, fury, bitter regret—belonged to my thirty-three-year-old self.

I'd thought I couldn't empathize with her pain.

My cheeks were already wet with tears.

"Are you still going to marry him?"

I turned the question back on her. "Do you still love him?"

She didn't answer. She didn't need to.

I was her. I knew.

Our love for Antony had seeped into our marrow years ago.

After a long silence, I said honestly, "I can't stop loving him. And I can't give up the version of him who loves me so fiercely right now. Making a twenty-four-year-old Antony pay for what he'll do in ten years... that wouldn't be fair either."

"If we can't cut out the root, we avoid it."

"You mean... stay away from Penelope? But will that change anything?"

"If nothing could change, you wouldn't have called me. We have to try."

Her voice lifted, a spark of hope breaking through. "You're right. We're truly in love—why should I hide? Love is worth fighting for. Then let's do this..."

The day Antony and I registered our marriage, I made one request.

If either of us files for divorce due to infidelity, the cheating party leaves with nothing.