Before his friend could finish, Zachary interrupted, sitting up with a scowl. “Colleague,” he spat. “She’s just a colleague, not my fiancée.”
His words felt like a dagger, making me tremble uncontrollably and turning the atmosphere unbearably awkward.
After a long silence, Zachary’s friend quickly tried to smooth things over, handing me a glass of wine. “Here, Vivian. Let’s have a drink.”
Just as I was about to take the glass, Zachary’s eyes snapped to his friend. “What are you doing? She’s allergic to alcohol.”
It was true. Zachary knew I was allergic to alcohol. But what happened next surprised me even more.
“Zachary, you’re drunk,” she said sweetly, placing a hand on his arm. “Louie was offering the drink to Vivian, not me.”
Zachary blinked, then shrugged. "Oh, she can drink. She drinks a lot actually. She’s the best drinker in the whole company."
His words shattered the last remnants of my heart. He had forgotten. He had forgotten the night I nearly died. The night I ended up in the hospital because he had forced me to drink for his clients. He had forgotten my allergy entirely.
Or maybe he just never cared enough to remember.