He Is Not My Knight in Shining Armor, Just a Deceitful Opportunist

When I regained consciousness, I was already at the hospital. Lenard stood by the bed, his face set in a deep scowl. The moment he noticed I was awake, he let out an annoyed snort.

“Are you a kid or what? You had a fever and you couldn’t take the medicine? You had to let it get so bad you ended up in the hospital?”

I blinked at him, gauging his tone and expression carefully. “Did you just worried about me?”

His eyes darted away and he crossed his arms, feigning impatience. “Who’d be worried about you? I just don’t need you causing me more trouble.”

Despite his words, I felt he was just being contrary. A smile spread across my face. “I’ll take it as a yes.”

He opened his mouth, as if ready to argue, but then hesitated. After a pause, he sighed and muttered, “Think whatever you want.” and he returned to his indifferent demeanor. 

But I knew—or at least, I hoped—that somewhere deep down, buried under his sharp words, was a sliver of care for me. Maybe even… a little bit of love.

I’d make him love me for real one day. I know love couldn’t be rushed—it needed time.

That hope carried me for a moment, but when reality pulled me back, it hit hard. 

Flashback off. 

***

I stood in the living room, staring at the mess left behind. The wreckage felt like my own heart—once cherished, now trampled into the ground. I packed my things in silence, my mind made up. It was time to go.

Just as I was zipping my bag, the doorbell rang.

At the door stood a courier, holding a package.

“Delivery for you. Sign here, please.”

I signed and shut the door behind me. When I opened the box, my breath caught. It was my wedding dress—or what was left of it.

The pearls I had so carefully hand-sewn were ripped off. The lace was shredded, the edges cut jaggedly and the pristine white veil was stained with smudges of color that had no place on it. The rest of the dress was no better.

My phone buzzed with a message. It was from Arlene: [The dress is ruined. Just make another one.]

Her tone was blunt, dismissive—no apology, no remorse. Just arrogant entitlement.

My hands tightened around the phone, but I didn’t reply. Instead, I took photos of the destroyed dress and pulled out my receipts. Materials, labor—all the costs I’d tallied while designing it.

Then I uploaded everything to my social media and tagged Arlene. “Consider the dress sold to you. $3,000. Who’s paying for it?”

The reaction was swift. Within seconds, my phone lit up with a call.

“What the hell are you doing?” Lenard’s voice thundered through the line. “It’s just a wedding dress! How could it cost that much? Delete that post right now! I don’t want Arlene seeing it and—”