Half an hour later, the house filled with people. A cleaning lady. A cook. A housekeeper.
I understood the message perfectly.
He was telling me that from now on, I'd never again have the excuse of cooking his meals, brewing his soups, doing his laundry, tidying his home. Every small domestic ritual I'd used to stay close to him, every thread of contact I'd woven through service and devotion, was being cut.
I let out a quiet, helpless laugh. But before I could retreat to the bedroom, the housekeeper stopped me.
"Miss Farley, this property is Mr. Swanson's premarital asset. Since you two aren't married yet, you're not authorized to stay here. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
My feet stopped. A dull ache bloomed behind my ribs.
I nodded, grabbed my suitcase, and walked out.
That was Victor. If things didn't go his way, he'd make sure you regretted it.
But it was fine. The woman marrying him wasn't going to be me.
I checked into a hotel for the night.
The next morning, a full hour before we were supposed to register the marriage, I called him.
No surprise. He didn't pick up.
A photo message from Alice popped up on my screen.