Chapter 2

Mia's POV

When I had handed him that beautifully bound sketchbook of architectural drawings with a heart full of joy, Logan had just hung up a work call, his brow slightly furrowed. He had merely glanced at the gift box, tossed out a casual "Thank you," and left it on the desk.

For three whole days, the sketchbook that had cost me every drop of my devotion had sat untouched in the corner of that desk, its plastic wrap not even broken.

Yet this sketchbook before me, filled with another woman, was kept locked away, buried in the most hidden, secure corner of his shelves.

Taking a deep, trembling breath, I pushed the black sketchbook back where it had been, picked up the Berlin portfolio, and walked out of the study.

After dropping off the portfolio at his firm that afternoon, I went to the supermarket. Pushing the cart through the fresh produce aisles as usual, I picked out his favorites. Logan had a sensitive stomach, so I bought fish to make soup; he had been putting in so much overtime lately, so I stocked up on fresh vegetables and fruit. I tried desperately to fill the growing black hole in my chest with these mundane chores.

Maybe... maybe there was a misunderstanding? I kept inventing excuses for him in my head. They were drawings from seven years ago, after all. Who didn't have a past? The person by his side right now was me. I was the one cooking his meals, doing his laundry, and knowing every little detail of his daily routine.

Why was I getting hung up over an old sketchbook?

At eight in the evening, Logan came through the front door, bringing with him the cold chill of an autumn night.

He wore a tailored black coat, his brow sharp, his deep-set eyes shadowed. Even with visible exhaustion hanging over him, that face was still the one that made my heart race at a single glance.

"You're back?" I walked up to greet him, taking his coat to hang it up. "Go wash up. Dinner's almost ready."

Four dishes and a hot soup were laid out on the dining table, steam rising gently. I ladled a bowl of soup and placed it in front of him, keeping my usual gentle smile in place.

Logan pulled out a chair, his eyes sweeping across the spread on the table. His brow furrowed immediately.

"Why did you make so much again?" Disapproval laced his tone. "I've told you, I can't eat much at night. Two dishes are enough for the two of us. Anything more just goes to waste!"

He sounded like a manager scolding a careless subordinate.

My fingers curled inward slightly. Usually, when he said things like that, I would explain in a soft, placating voice that I just wanted him to eat well.

Tonight, that sketchbook was lodged in my throat like a shard of glass, making even the act of swallowing painful.

"I was in a good mood today," I murmured, keeping my head down.

"What's there to be so happy about?" Logan tossed back casually, picking up his fork to take a bite, his attention already shifting to a work email popping up on his phone.

I didn't answer. I picked up my bowl and mechanically pushed food into my mouth.

Staring fixedly down into my plate, my eyes burned fiercely until finally, a single tear broke free and fell, vanishing into my food. Then a second. Then a third.

I didn't dare make a sound. I didn't even dare let out a ragged breath. I was terrified he would look up and see how pathetic I looked—and even more terrified that if he asked why, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from demanding to know who that girl was.

Logan never looked up. One hand scrolled continuously through his phone, while the other picked at his food. Through the entire meal, he never once noticed that his fiancée, sitting right across from him, was crying her eyes out.

"I'm done. I have a few emails to answer. Clear the table when you're finished," Logan said, putting down his fork. He pushed back his chair, stood up, and walked straight to his study.

I sat alone under the dining room chandelier, looking at the table of barely touched food. Unable to hold it in any longer, I pressed my hand over my mouth, letting out a stifled, agonizing sob.

Three years of my youth, three years of unconditional devotion, had completely shattered today before an old, tattered sketchbook—reduced to shards of glass on the floor that could never be pieced back together.