I took a deep breath, forced a smile, and pushed the door open.

The laughter stopped instantly. Everyone looked awkward.

The man I was supposed to marry in three days was lying in a woman’s arms, looking at her so lovingly.

It was the girl from his computer.

Greg’s friends hadn’t expected me so soon and rushed to pull him off Chelsea.

But Greg seemed wasted and didn’t budge.

He mumbled, “Get off! Don’t touch me!”

It was the first time I’d ever seen him this drunk.

His friends whispered in his ear, “Jamie’s here to get you! Wake up! You’re getting married soon…”

The others joined in, and they finally managed to pry Greg’s hands off Chelsea.

He fell back onto the couch, his face flushed.

His friend finally introduced me.

“This is Chelsea, our high school friend. She's been overseas since college. She just got back today and happened to catch our party. Greg's drunk. Don't think too much about it…”

If this had been the old me, I might’ve flipped out and demanded to know why they’d invited Chelsea knowing Greg and I were getting married.

But now, I just smiled.

Chelsea looked at me with amusement.

Then Greg’s friend introduced me.

When he said “fiancée,” Greg snapped:

“She’s just a friend!”

My hands clenched beneath my sleeves.

My nails dug into my skin, and I started to tremble.

It wasn’t the first time Greg had avoided publicly acknowledging me.

From the beginning, he refused to post pictures of us, show up with me at company events, or even invite our families and friends to the wedding. I should've seen it coming.

I just stubbornly bet eight years of my life that I could change him.

I lost.

I forced another smile and nodded to Chelsea.

“Hi, I’m Jamie. Greg’s friend. You're even prettier in person.”

The room went silent.

Everyone exchanged uneasy glances.

Chelsea just laughed, unbothered, and reached for the fruit platter.

Then, Greg sat up again.

“Chelsea, you’re allergic to mangoes! You can’t eat that!”

Chelsea froze, looking at him with amusement.

She said softly, “You’re still the same, Greg. Silly. It's watermelon. You're drunk.”

Something exploded in my mind.

The pieces pierced my heart.

He didn’t forget things. He just didn’t care about me.

I reminded him countless times that I was allergic to seafood, but he always picked seafood restaurants for our dates.

I started out angry, then I gave up, even fooling myself.

I'd said, "He's just too busy. His brain is too full."

But today, reality slapped me.

Every detail screamed that he didn’t love me.

I expressionlessly pulled him off the couch. As I hailed a cab, Chelsea followed us.

Her eyes were soft as she smiled at Greg.

She whispered to me, “Greg can’t handle his liquor and he’s allergic to something in hangover cures. Make him a cup of honey water. The water has to be under 140 degrees. He’ll be fine. Or he'll wake up with a headache.”

Greg had never told me any of that.

I gritted my teeth, said nothing, and turned to get in the cab.

She stopped me again.

“Oh, maybe I should get your number. You can ask me if he feels sick tonight.”

“Greg doesn’t sleep well after drinking. You have to watch him all night. If he kicks off the covers, put them back. Otherwise, he’ll definitely have a fever tomorrow.”

My nails were digging into my palms, and my eyelashes fluttered.

I stared into her innocent eyes and finally nodded.

We exchanged numbers. Then I saw Chelsea’s social media profile was a picture of her and Greg.