After My Fiancé Wed Her I Married His Rival

The conversation with Jadiel went well; he seemed to have everything planned out and even knew my favorite flowers. However, I realized I had forgotten my ID, so I had to take a cab back to my apartment.

When I arrived, I found the whole place had been rearranged in just one evening. All my belongings were crammed into a cardboard box by the door, mixed with trash. Inside, I could hear Birdie’s giggles—she was wearing a vibrant Victorian-style dress, and Eli stood dutifully beside her, enduring Freya and Kieran’s sardonic comments with a patient smile.

Suddenly, everything felt pointless. The once charismatic young man I remembered now appeared as meek as a kitten around Birdie, just another indistinct figure in the crowd.

I stooped to retrieve my ID, and Eli showed up beside me. He seized my wrist and pulled me into the hallway, murmuring, "Arabella, didn't we agree you wouldn't make a scene?"

I wasn't interested in engaging and just waved the ID I had picked up. Eli frowned; he had sensed a change in me since the previous night. "Arabella, we had an understanding, right? You're not thinking of ditching the wedding, are you?"

An understanding? With Birdie in the morning and me in the afternoon? Did he really fancy himself a king choosing queens?

I had no desire to play into his charade and pulled my wrist free, offering him a courteous smile. "Of course not."

No sooner had I spoken than Birdie's cheerful voice interrupted, calling out, "Arabella?" It was Birdie and her relatives. Several heads emerged from the doorway, their expressions full of judgment. Eli’s face darkened, gearing up to whisper threats, but I turned away with a smile and headed toward them.

Ignoring Eli’s astonished look behind me, I uttered a few congratulatory words. Before leaving, I made sure to grab the box containing my so-called "trash" and, in front of everyone, dumped it into the garbage. Inside were the paintings I had created of Eli over the years, each brushstroke once infused with sweetness.

But now, gazing at the cracked paint on the canvas, all I saw was Eli’s face—like a mask peeling away layer by layer, making me feel nauseous.

Birdie clutched Eli’s arm as if she were bidding me farewell, playing the part of the hostess. My phone buzzed with a message from Eli, asking me not to be upset, promising he'd be at the wedding that afternoon.

But the truth is, I was no longer upset. I smiled serenely and waved at Birdie’s smug expression. After all, by the afternoon, she’d be calling me Aunt Arabella.