I'm Getting Married, But the Groom is Not You
Chapter 5
I blocked his number.
Jake.
After everything he did—after stealing my heart, betraying me, and sleeping with her in our bed—he had the audacity to blow up my phone like he was the victim.
Calls. Messages. Voicemails.
He just couldn’t help himself. Especially after Ryan sent out the wedding invitations.
Our wedding. Me and Ethan. Next week.
That’s when Jake lost it.
First came the confused texts:
Jake:
“What the hell is this invitation?”
“You’re getting married? To who? Is this a prank?”
“Oh, wait. It’s April. You and Ryan doing your annual sibling joke again, huh?”
“Good one. Really had me going.”
Then came the clingy ones:
“When you get home, can you make that spicy shrimp thing I like?”
“I miss your food. Miss your smell too.”
“Come back soonest. Please.”
“Clarisse. Baby.”
As if the last six months hadn’t happened. As if I’d just gone on vacation and forgotten to bring him a souvenir.
I turned off my phone and shoved it in a drawer, deep enough I wouldn’t hear the vibrations.
I was done giving him space in my heart. Or my head. Or my stomach.
Even if I once loved him so hard, it made my bones ache.
Even if part of me still dreamed of what we could have been.
But that part? She was buried.
Right next to the two tiny hearts I never got to meet.
+++
JAKE'S POV
I’d called her twenty-seven times.
Twenty-seven.
Each one went straight to voicemail. Not even a damn ring.
“Pick up, dammit!” I snapped, pacing my condo like a caged animal. The phone slipped from my grip and shattered against the wall. Fine. Whatever. It was just a phone. I could buy a hundred more.
What I couldn’t buy back? Control.
Clarisse was gone—and not just physically. She vanished. Off the grid. Silent.
And that silence? That was louder than any fight we’d ever had.
I yanked the fridge open. Half-eaten takeout. That annoying chili sauce she loved. I slammed the door shut.
Dramatic. That’s what this was. Classic Clarisse. Always all in, always bleeding love like it was her damn job. Yeah, I screwed up. A few times. So what? What woman doesn’t forgive a man who knows exactly how to break her in and put her back together?
She’d come back.
She always came back.
Because that’s who she was. Lunaric. Addicted. A fool in love with a bad habit.
Me.
She used to look at me like I was made of answers. Like I was her beginning, middle, and end. She called it love. I called it convenience. It worked. I gave her just enough to keep her hooked, and she gave me everything.
Hell, she even played sugar momma without blinking. Clarisse was old money—filthy rich—and I had no problem letting her fund my ego. I'd buy designer shit for Lila using Clarisse’s cards. Why not? She paid for it with that blind, obsessive loyalty of hers.
And me? I’m no saint. Never claimed to be.
I liked Lila. She was chaos, like me. Fun. Reckless. She never asked for my soul—just my time, my body, my loyalty. Clarisse, though? She wanted the whole damn thing.
And I gave her none of it.
Until she finally broke.
Then I saw it.
A folded piece of paper poking out from the console drawer in the hall. I pulled it loose, expecting receipts, maybe one of her guilt-ridden notes.
But the heading hit me like a bat to the chest:
“Emergency Surgical Report – Post-Miscarriage Removal.”
I read the rest like I was underwater.
Blunt force trauma. Internal hemorrhaging.
double pregnancy.
None survived.
Her name. Her signature. A timestamp that stared me down like a curse.
Twins.
I staggered back, breath knocked out of me. My stomach churned. I hadn’t known. She didn’t tell me. Not once. Not even a hint.
And I never asked.
I never cared enough to ask.
The room closed in. My chest tightened, rage crawling under my skin.
The paper was still in my hand when Leo burst in, all hype and no awareness. “Yo, Jake—bro, you gotta see this!”
“Not now.”
“Nah, now.” He shoved a tablet at me. “Ryan dropped the link in the chat. It’s live.”
“What is?”
He grinned. “The wedding.”
I frowned. “What wedding?”
“Clarisse’s.”
I grabbed the tablet, and my blood went cold.
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