Whenever she couldn't come home at night, she sent photos and her location, just as I used to, though I never replied.
Harper, on the other hand, was talkative and cheerful. When she showed up to pick up one of Arianne’s dresses, she greeted me with a bright smile.
“Sir, tomorrow is your sixth anniversary,” she said with a bright, knowing smile. “The chairman planned a huge surprise for you, so please make sure you keep your schedule open.”
Six years together.
Despite everything, there was a time when we truly created beautiful memories.
I figured we should at least have a clean ending. Something real.
So I opened the couple-tracking app we hadn’t used in years and followed the location pin to the city's biggest hotel.
The entire ballroom was drowned in red and pink roses.
A giant LED screen looped a montage of the past six years of my life with Arianne—photos, clips, moments I had nearly forgotten.
But the person at the center of the room wasn’t me.
Onstage, Arianne was down on one knee, holding a ring box open toward a sharply dressed Hudson.
Of course, she was the one proposing.
It fit her perfectly—loud, dramatic, center stage, needing the spotlight on her terms.