The Hundredth Time She Ghosted

I made a deal with Sonia Quindt—the billionaire CEO. After I'd proposed to her ninety-nine freaking times, she swore she'd finally show up for the hundredth.

Spoiler: she didn't.

She was out there at some concert with her boy toy. And, of course, someone caught them on livestream. Big kiss. Big viral moment.

Meanwhile, my face was plastered all over the internet too—lonely guy number one, waiting for a bride who never existed. Everyone online started making bets. Who was the mystery woman? How long until I came crawling back for the hundred-and-first proposal?

Sonia, apparently struck by some last-minute guilt, promised she'd make it right next time. Said she'd actually show up.

And she did. Wedding dress. Perfect makeup. Cameras ready.

She got a text from me:

[Sonia, there won't be a hundred-and-first proposal. We're done.]

I'd hit triple digits. Proposal number one hundred.

Same spot—County Clerk's Office, Borevia City.

Same result—empty sidewalk, empty heart.

Sonia Quindt? Off somewhere with Pierre Sanchez. Her boy toy.

Could be a concert. Could be an amusement park.

Didn't matter. She wasn't here.

Once, they'd even rolled up to the Clerk's Office themselves—married on a dare, divorced by brunch.

For fun.

What I'd dreamed of, they'd trashed for kicks.

So yeah, I killed my phone and sat by the curb.

Waited.

No car.

Then—buzz. Her name on the screen.

I picked up.

Cold voice, perfect diction.

"It's late and you're still not home. You're my fiancé—do you ever think about how I feel? Where are you right now?"

I didn't answer.

Old me would've folded fast, explained everything, tried to sound gentle.

Now? Nothing left to give.

She snapped, irritated.

"Hedley Hart, are you mute now?"

"County Clerk's Office."

Silence.

Then that tiny gasp—like she just remembered her own promise.

The deal: after ninety-nine rejections, she'd show up for the hundredth.

Say yes.

Instead, she'd gone to a concert with Pierre.

"I... wait for me. I'll drive over."

Click. End call.

I canceled the ride. Not out of hope though.

Snow started falling—hard and fast.

I stood there on the curb, freezing, shaking.

Three hours in, my phone died.

Sonia never came.

Before the screen went black, one last thing flashed—Pierre's post.

A selfie. Him and Sonia in front of some car, her face turned halfway.

Caption: [Under the same snow, our hair turns white. Close enough to growing old together, right?]

In the dead glass, my reflection stared back—smiling. Not bitter. Just done.

The hundredth promise, traded for a concert and a boy toy.

I froze out there till morning. She never came.

Five years gone to voicemail.

Five years spent waiting for her to mean it.

In the end, I was just background noise.

'Sonia Quindt, I'm done waiting.'

***

That night, I didn't go home.

Just dragged my half-frozen body two hours through slush to the nearest hotel.

No calls. No texts. Nothing.

Next morning, I showed up at Quindt Corp early—to quit.

Sonia built the place.

I was just another name on her payroll.