He Gave Me Fake Bags and a Fake Future Chapter 02
The cheap fake logos and his casual answer told me everything I needed to know.
What was left to ask without humiliating myself even more?
“What?” He looked up at me.
“You couldn’t tell a fake from the real thing for eight years, and now you’re here questioning me?”
I looked into the eyes I’d once lost myself in. Now there was nothing there but cold amusement.
“So…” I clenched my jaw, forcing the words out one by one. “You did it on purpose.”
“You never meant to marry me. Not from the start.”
Adrian idly rolled the bills between his fingers, then let go.
The money fluttered to the floor.
He rose to his feet and looked down at me.
His shadow fell over me, his alcohol-warm breath brushing my face.
Once, that closeness would’ve made my heart race. Now it only made my skin crawl.
“What else did you expect?”
He reached out and patted my cheek like I was a child.
“Claire, why would I waste the real thing on you?”
“I pay for your home, your life, everything, and you can’t even tell a real handbag from a fake. You honestly thought I was going to make you Mrs. Sterling?”
I lifted my chin and forced back the tears burning behind my eyes.
“You’re right. I’m not good enough.”
“So I won’t be asking to become Mrs. Sterling anymore.”
“Save that title for someone you think deserves it.”
I turned and walked out.
A summer storm pounded the pavement outside, kicking up sheets of mist.
I had no umbrella, and I didn’t look back.
Cold rain soaked me through in seconds, but I barely felt it.
His words kept looping through my head. Why would I waste the real thing on you?
And then the memories came.
The thirtieth time we’d fallen into one of these standoffs, I’d stormed out in tears. He chased me into the pouring rain, fastened a necklace around my neck, and murmured, “Clary, enough. Come home.”
The fortieth time, I’d moved out. He stood outside my building all night, then pressed a handbag into my arms the next morning. “Don’t be mad, Clary.”
I’d convinced myself he just wasn’t good with words. Those luxury gifts, I’d thought, were his awkward way of saying what he couldn’t say out loud.
They were all fake.
And the cruelest part was that I’d let those fake gifts buy my forgiveness over and over again.
I stumbled home and tore through drawers, closets, and boxes.
The anniversary necklace. My birthday watch. The matching Valentine’s Day rings. Every keepsake I’d treasured because I thought it held some piece of his love…
Not one of them was real.
Not one.
I sank to the floor amid the mess and finally broke down.
In eight years, I’d never once looked closely.
Because every time he gave me something, his voice had been so tender, his eyes so warm as he said,
“Clary, you deserve the best money can buy.”
And I had believed him.
I had no idea how long I’d been sitting there when Sloane half-dragged Adrian through the door, his arm slung over her shoulders.
“Claire, Adrian had way too much to drink tonight, so I brought him home.”
She eased him onto the couch, straightened, and let her gaze drift from my face to the boxes strewn across the floor.
“Claire, what are you looking for in all this?”
She tilted her head, all feigned innocence. “Oh. Are you looking for that scarf?”
I turned toward the box and only then realized it was empty. The slate-blue scarf was gone.
My mother had knitted it stitch by stitch before she died, rushing to finish what she meant to be my wedding gift.
Sloane followed my gaze and smiled.
“That? I mentioned liking it last month, and Adrian gave it to me. Said it was just taking up space.”
“Where is it? Give it back to me!”
“I threw it away.”
She blinked, as casually as if she’d tossed out a receipt.
“Handmade stuff like that is so tacky. Who would even want it?”
