THE TRUTH BEHIND HIS PROPOSAL

POV: Ava

My heels struck the pavement in sharp, uneven clicks as I pushed through the hotel’s side entrance into the cool night air. The city lights blurred through the tears I refused to let fall. Behind me, the grand doors burst open again.

“Ava!” Adrian’s voice cracked through the night, raw and desperate. “Ava, wait!”

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. My legs carried me forward on pure instinct, away from the glittering nightmare I had just left behind. The emerald gown that had felt elegant hours ago now clung to me like a shroud.

Reporters spilled out after him, a swarm of flashing cameras and shouted questions.

“Miss Carter! Were you and Mr. Hayes still together?”

“Did he cheat on you?”

“How long has this been going on?”

I kept my head down, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Flashes popped like gunfire. I raised one arm to shield my face and kept moving. All I wanted was to disappear. To melt into the shadows and never be seen again.

A sleek black Maybach glided to the curb beside me, its engine purring softly. The driver’s window lowered. It was Thomas—Adrian’s longtime driver—his face etched with discomfort.

“Miss Carter… Mr. Hayes asked me to take you home,” he said gently. “Please. Let me get you out of here safely.”

I let out a bitter, broken laugh that tasted like acid in my throat. Home? Which home? The luxurious penthouse we shared? The one he’d bought for us while secretly planning a future with someone else?

“No,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “Thank you, Thomas. But no.”

I stepped off the curb and hailed the first taxi I saw. The yellow cab screeched to a stop. I climbed in without looking back, slamming the door behind me.

As the taxi pulled away, I allowed myself one glance through the rear window. Adrian stood frozen outside the hotel entrance, tall and imposing under the bright lights. Reporters circled him like vultures, but he didn’t move. He just watched the taxi carry me away, his hands clenched at his sides.

He didn’t chase me.

Not really.

I turned forward again, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. *Of course he didn’t.* Why would he, when Claire was still inside waiting for him?

The city lights streaked past in streaks of gold and neon. Every corner held a memory. The little Italian restaurant where we’d celebrated our first anniversary. The park bench where he’d kissed me in the rain. The bookstore where we’d spent lazy Sundays browsing for hours. Each familiar sight twisted the knife deeper.

I reached into my clutch and pulled out the engagement ring I had placed in his palm only minutes ago. The diamond caught the passing streetlights and sparkled mockingly. My finger felt naked without it. Empty. Just like the rest of me.

Tears finally slipped free, silent and hot. The driver kept his eyes on the road, polite enough not to comment on the crying woman in his backseat. I was grateful for the small mercy.

By the time the taxi reached our building, my chest felt hollow. I paid the driver with shaking hands and stepped out into the quiet lobby. The doorman nodded at me with a sympathetic smile he quickly hid. Word traveled fast, apparently.

The elevator ride to the penthouse was suffocating. When the doors opened directly into our home, the silence hit me like a physical blow.

Everything was exactly as we had left it this morning.

Adrian’s favorite coffee mug sat on the kitchen island, half-full, a faint ring of cold coffee at the bottom. His navy jacket hung casually by the door. Framed photos lined the shelves—us smiling on a yacht in the Maldives, laughing in Santorini, wrapped around each other at last year’s company gala. The life we had built stared back at me, mocking in its normalcy.

It still looked like a home for two people who loved each other.

But it wasn’t. Not anymore.

I kicked off my heels, letting them tumble across the marble floor. My earrings and necklace followed, placed mechanically on the console table. Each movement felt robotic, like someone else was controlling my body. I wandered into the living room and sank onto the edge of the sofa, staring at nothing.

My phone began to vibrate in my clutch. I ignored it at first. Then it rang again —Friends,Coworkers, Unknown numbers, Probably reporters. I rejected every call, watching the screen light up with names that no longer mattered.

Then his name appeared.

Adrian.

The phone rang in my hand. I stared at the screen until it went dark. It rang again immediately. And again. Each vibration sent a fresh wave of pain through me.

I never answered.

Finally, I powered the phone off completely and set it face-down on the coffee table.

“Whatever you have to say…” I whispered into the empty apartment, my voice cracking, “you should have said it before you asked someone else to marry you.”

The words hung in the air, unanswered.

I stood up slowly and walked to the master bathroom. The lights were too bright. I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the mascara streaks and the night itself. The water stung my swollen eyes.

Then it hit me.

A violent wave of nausea rolled through my stomach without warning. I gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white. The room spun. I barely made it to the toilet before I was sick, heaving until there was nothing left.

When it finally passed, I slid down the wall, breathing hard, my back against the cool marble. Sweat beaded on my forehead. This wasn’t the first time this week. The nausea had come and gone quietly for days now. I’d blamed stress, late nights, grief over nothing in particular.

I closed my eyes for a long moment, trying to steady myself.