When the Stars Fall,The Billionaire's Revenge Bride

I tapped the ash from my cigarette, then stopped mid-motion.

The stainless steel ashtray caught my reflection. Fine lines at the corners of my eyes. Exhaustion etched between my brows. A black V-neck dress that had torn along the seam during the earlier scuffle.

She really did look like a younger version of me. More alive, even, than I had ever been.

And Christopher really had bought me so many dresses just like hers.

I hadn't understood before. Now, I finally did. That look in his eyes every time he watched me put one on, full of expectation, only to go flat with disappointment the moment he actually saw me in it.

Gradually, I grew to hate that hollow pretense of his. I started wearing the styles he despised most.

Seven years together, and none of it measured up to three days with her.

At the end of it all, he was simply bored of me.

"Christopher, people change."

"But the thought of marrying you, the way you are now, makes me sick."

I crushed the cigarette out. My hands clenched tight, knuckles white, trying to hide the trembling.

Christopher's gaze swept over me, top to bottom, and he offered nothing more than a single flat sentence. "Give me one more year."

"I'm already thirty."

His step faltered. He half-turned, a smile playing on his lips that meant nothing kind. "So you do know you're thirty."

That sneer lodged in my chest like a needle.

I watched his back as he walked away, and all at once, I was done playing his game.

"Christopher, let's end this."

He didn't turn around. But he answered.

"You wouldn't dare."

I drew a long breath and sank into the couch. Even breathing felt tight.

He wasn't wrong. The old me wouldn't have dared. Or maybe it wasn't courage I lacked. It was that I couldn't stand the thought of giving up.

I'd imagined it countless times: if he didn't love me, what kind of woman would he love? And I'd told myself I could fight for it, compete, become that.

But now that I'd actually seen her, the whole thing just felt pointless.

Completely, thoroughly pointless.

I steadied myself. When I opened my eyes again, Christopher was standing at the cake table, cutting slices.

He was clumsy about it, sawing carefully at a pink rabbit-shaped cake. He placed two strawberries on top, fumbling with them, but they kept sliding crooked. Finally he gave up and set the plate aside, glancing around the room for help.

I was the only one there.

"Can you help me? She gave me orders. If I mess it up, she won't let me come find her."

He held the pink tray out to me. I reached for it.

The instant our hands touched, he pulled back.

I cut a slice of cake. In the mirror behind the table, I could see Christopher's reflection. He was looking down, rubbing the hand that had just brushed against mine.

I believed him now. The thought of marrying me really did make him sick.

"Christopher, I mean it. Let's break up."

He looked up, took the plate of cake from my hands, and nodded.

"Sure."

The party was an all-night affair. No one was allowed to leave until morning. I had no choice but to wait it out.

I drifted to the bar and ordered two drinks. Maybe I hated him for being faithless. Maybe I hated myself for being weak. Either way, two drinks turned into more before I noticed.

When night fell, a bonfire was lit. Christopher and his crowd gathered around it to celebrate his birthday. His friends were sloppy drunk, and their mouths ran loose.

"Chris, your girl loves you so much. If you just sweet-talked her a little, forget a mistress, she'd probably put up with a whole lineup."

"Tch, watch your mouth. She's not 'the mistress,' she's the new Mrs. Gilbert. Right, new Mrs. Gilbert?"

"Oh right, right, my bad. I'll drink three for that."

I sat at the bar, glass in hand, the room blurring at the edges. But even through the haze, I felt it. A gaze, cutting straight toward me.