Chapter 2

Summer POV

"Sleep in the guest room," I said.

He looked as if he hadn't heard me properly. "What did you say?"

"The wedding is off." I looked up. "Starting tonight, you sleep in the guest room."

Raymond froze in the doorway, his brows pulling into a deep frown.

"Summer," he asked, "what do you mean, it's off?"

I didn't answer.

He tossed his coat over the back of the sofa, his tone dropping. "The invitations are already out. You're saying it's off now?"

"I'm already having them recalled."

"Are you done throwing a fit?"

I didn't look at him again. I just waved my hand dismissively, the exact way I would wave away a waiter who brought the wrong order.

"Go to the guest room," I said. "Don't make me say it a third time."

The next morning, Raymond acted as if nothing had happened.

He emerged from the guest room holding the stack of invitations I had pushed aside the night before and placed them in front of me.

"I went over the guest list all night," he said. "Not a single name was missed."

I glanced at them without touching a single envelope.

"Didn't you sleep in the guest room last night?" I asked.

"I just didn't want you tossing and turning alone." He smiled faintly, his tone patronizing. "Summer, stop being angry. We're about to get married. Don't take it out on me."

"You think I'm just taking it out on you?" I set my mug down.

"What else would it be?" He leaned against the table. "Just because I came home late? Or because I took too long checking the list? It's been like this since we were kids—I coax you a little, and you're fine."

I looked up at him. The coldness in my eyes made his smile freeze.

In the past, I got genuinely mad.

I would smash things, pull on him so he couldn't leave, call him a dozen times in the middle of the night, and wait for him to comfort me. One soft word from him, and I'd melt.

Every bit of that anger was an olive branch I handed him, waiting for him to take it.

Today, I wasn't offering one.

"I said," I pushed the invitations back, "go to the guest room."

He paused, but ultimately said nothing more. Picking up the invitations, he headed inside.

Before the door clicked shut, I heard him let out a quiet scoff—the exact same mocking tone his mother had used in the restroom the night before.

A day later, I finalized my long-term residency application for Switzerland.

That afternoon, I walked into my regular café.

I had been coming here for five or six years. The staff all knew me, and I always preferred the table by the floor-to-ceiling window.

Today, several people were already sitting there.

"This table is mine today," I told the barista.

The new employee hesitated with an awkward look, but a senior staff member rushed over to smooth things over, politely asking the other patrons to move to another section.

"Put the entire month's tab on my card," I said, handing it over. "You don't need to ask me moving forward. Just charge it to my account."

The senior employee took the card with both hands, nodding repeatedly before hurrying to the counter.

Just as I sat down, I looked out the window and saw Raymond walking past with Phoebe down below.

Raymond pulled out a chair for Phoebe, letting her sit first.

Phoebe glanced at an iced drink on the menu. He frowned slightly, waved a server over, swapped the iced drink for a hot one, and specifically requested low sugar.

When Phoebe lingered on a hair clip displayed in a storefront, he took her hand and pulled her inside. He examined each one, picked one out, leaned down to pin it into her hair, and gently asked if she liked it.

I held my cup, watching them through the glass for a long time without taking a single sip.

I used to make excuses for him.

I thought he was just naturally cold and treated everyone with the same detachment. I thought if I waited a few more years and spent enough money, he would eventually warm up to me.

That excuse was completely dead now.

He knew how to smile. He remembered when someone couldn't have ice. He bought things on the spot the moment someone lingered on them.

He was entirely capable of all of it. He just never did it for me.

I paid for his family's medical bills, signed Rachel's tuition checks, and secured him his partnership.

I could buy his presence at dress fittings and his time reviewing guest lists, but I couldn't buy a shred of warmth in his eyes when he looked at me.

I had made too many excuses for him in the past.

He grew up poor; he was always busy; he didn't know how to say sweet things.

Today, every single one of those excuses fell apart.

The chasm between love and indifference couldn't be bridged by all the money I had thrown his way.

When I returned to the apartment, I remained cold and distant.

I slowly moved my belongings toward the guest room, taking down his photos from the living room walls and tucking them into drawers one by one.

Raymond still assumed I was just sulking. He brought over a mug of warm water and tried to sweet-talk me.

I didn't take it. I simply pulled my book from his grasp and moved to the other end of the couch.

He stood frozen in place, the smile on his face fading away bit by bit.

"Summer," his voice dropped low, "how long are you going to keep throwing this tantrum?"

I didn't look up.

"I'm not throwing a tantrum," I said. "I'm just done playing along with your act."

"My act?" He gave a bitter laugh. "Summer, you were the one who started this whole performance."

I didn't take the bait.

He placed the mug of warm water back on the table. A few drops splashed over the rim, soaking into the wood.