He Gave Her The Best So I Left Him With Nothing Chapter 03
The next day, Cormac behaved as if the previous night’s tension had never happened. He proposed we drive out to see our future home in Lake Forest — a renovated carriage house.
Before I could even reach the passenger door, he was already holding it open for Marguerite as she climbed out of the back seat.
“Marguerite wanted to take a look, give us some ideas,” he explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I said nothing and got into the back.
The carriage house was lovely, with a charming little garden. The instant Marguerite stepped inside, she made straight for the sunroom with its floor-to-ceiling windows, her eyes lighting up.
“The light in here is incredible,” she said. “This would be the perfect little retreat for me to come write and unwind.”
Cormac answered without missing a beat. “No problem. We’ll save this room for you. I’ll have the designer bring in an ergonomic chair and a new coffee machine.”
I stood in the doorway, watching them arrange the space as though they were the ones moving in. After a long moment, I spoke.
“Cormac, I was planning to use that as my restoration studio.”
He turned to me, his tone as casual as if we were talking about the weather. “The basement is huge. It’ll be more than enough space for you.”
I looked at his matter-of-fact expression and drove my nails into my palm.
In the end, I unclenched my fist and said only two words.
“Whatever works.”
Cormac patted my shoulder, his voice full of approval. “I knew you’d be easy about it.”
The moment we left the house, the bridal boutique called to say the three custom gowns for our engagement photos had arrived. Marguerite immediately looped her arm through mine, insisting she come along to help me choose.
She practically dragged me into the shop.
When I stepped out in a champagne-colored Vera Wang, the whole boutique seemed to hold its breath. But right then Marguerite took a phone call, and her expression curdled. Apparently there was a problem with the dress she’d planned to wear to an important dinner that evening.
After she hung up, she glanced at the gown I was wearing, her hesitation obvious.
Cormac understood instantly. He waved off every alternative the sales associate offered and turned to me, his tone final.
“Sadie, give that one to your sister.”
The associate rushed to explain. “Mr. Sinclair, this gown was altered specifically to Miss Sadie’s measurements —”
“They’re twins. They’re built the same,” Cormac cut her off impatiently. “How long can a few alterations take? Marguerite needs it tonight.”
I looked at my reflection in the mirror, then at the urgency on Cormac’s face. The whole thing felt like a farce.
Without a word, I went back to the dressing room, changed, and handed the gown to Marguerite.
“You’re the best, Sadie.” Marguerite took the dress, her face a mask of gratitude.
Cormac looked relieved. He came over and lowered his voice. “You’re always the most sensible one. I’ll buy you an even better one later.”
But in the next second, all his attention was back on Marguerite.
He knelt, carefully adjusting the hem where it pooled too long for her, smoothing the delicate fabric with his fingertips until it grazed her ankles perfectly, without touching a speck of dust on the floor.
A memory I’d buried for weeks came flooding back with painful clarity.
When I had tried on my actual wedding gown, the enormous train had spilled across the floor. I’d asked him to lift it for me, just for a second, and he had frowned and refused, saying that was “the staff’s job.”
So it wasn’t that he didn’t know how to be considerate. It wasn’t that he lacked patience.
He simply didn’t want to give either to me.
I had once believed I loved him because years ago, when my parents scolded me for restoring antiques, calling it a “dead-end hobby,” he had been the only one to hand me a Godiva chocolate and say, “You’re really good at what you do.”
For that single scrap of warmth, I had accepted his proposal, knowing full well he was still in love with Marguerite. I had even let my own craft slip through my fingers, piece by piece, trying to become the perfect “good fiancée.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was Zara. The casita in Santa Fe is rented. Sending you the address now.
Cormac’s voice drifted over from a few feet away. He was holding up a plain black dress, utterly devoid of charm. “Sadie, stop spacing out. Put this on. The sooner we get these photos done, the sooner we can leave.”
I looked down at the unfamiliar New Mexico address glowing on my screen. My fingertips were cold, but my hand was perfectly steady.
I messaged Zara back.
On the wedding day. We stick to the plan.
