When I woke up hours later, the side of my thigh burned with a stinging, agonizing pain. The hospital room was dark and completely empty.
I laid there staring at the ceiling. Brandon didn't come to check on me. Not that night, and not for the next three days as I recovered in absolute isolation. I was nothing but spare parts to him.
On the fourth night—the eve of our supposed wedding—the door finally opened.
“I’m leaving,” he announced coldly, checking his luxury watch. “Paula is traumatized by everything you’ve put her through. She decided to go back to London, and I have to go to the airport to stop her.”
I sat up slowly, the pain in my leg a dull throb. “Tomorrow is the day you told me we were filing our marriage papers.”
“I know,” Brandon snapped. “I can't come. I’m sending her home, so you need to go to the civil registry and file the paperwork yourself. Consider marrying me a punishment for making Paula leave again. Make sure you file it. Got it?”
He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving me in the dark once again.
I didn't reply. I just listened to his fading footsteps, a slow, quiet smile spreading across my face.
The next morning, the sun was shining brightly over the city.