Her Last Waiting at City Hall

He effortlessly turned the blame back on me.

His theatrics only made him look more guilty.

I rubbed my temples, suddenly drained of any desire to argue. “You know whether it’s true or not, Vincent.”

With that, I turned and walked away.

His cold voice followed me. “Fine. I know perfectly well. Don’t you ever come looking for me again. Stop pestering me, begging me to marry you!”

This time, I didn’t look back. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted blood.

I had only taken a few steps when my phone buzzed with a text message: “Isabella, didn’t manage to get married again, did you? Such a shame. But don’t worry. You can beg Vincent to marry you again. The eighth time’s the charm, right?”

I read that text message three times.

I didn’t have to be a genius to know she was mocking me.

Although I had already guessed the real reason for Vincent’s absence, Sophia Lombardi’s text still felt like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from my lungs.

Vincent and I grew up together. We were childhood sweethearts, inseparable.

As a little girl, I vowed I would marry him when I grew up.

This vow had made both our parents ecstatic.

And Vincent had always been good to me.

Until we became adults.

Then he brought another woman home—Sophia Lombardi. Watching their sickeningly sweet interactions, it hit me: whatever Vincent felt for me, it had never been love.

The realization terrified me.

A few years ago, I jokingly suggested we get married.

Our parents were all for it, but Vincent—he turned me down flat.

Over the next few years, I must have proposed a dozen times.

He only agreed seven times—and on all seven of those occasions, he stood me up.

And every single time, like clockwork, Sophia would send a taunting text.

Just then, my phone vibrated again.

I thought it was Sophia and my thumb instinctively moved to decline, but I saw it was my friend, Maria Costa.

She was inviting me to a family get-together that evening.

Without thinking, I asked, “Is Vincent going to be there?”

“Don’t worry, Isabella. I know how things are between you two, so I already gave him a heads-up. He’s coming!” she said cheerfully.

“Never mind, then,” I replied. “If he’s going, I’m not. Maybe next time.”