The Ring He Was Putting on My Finger, the Money He Was Sending to Her Chapter 04
The cramping in my lower belly got worse over the next few days.
I’d spent hours making chicken noodle soup and packed it in a Thermos, planning to bring it to the hospital after my checkup to keep my strength up.
But at an intersection, on a whim, I told the driver to go to Dylan’s studio instead.
The receptionist saw me and let me right in.
I carried the Thermos to his private consultation room.
The door wasn’t fully closed. There was a sliver of a gap.
Tiffany’s soft, sweet voice came through, “Dylan, you spent five million to buy back Hillcrest Manor… really just to help me?”
I stopped.
“Don’t overthink it,” Dylan said, his voice flat.
Tiffany laughed softly, sounding even more sugary. “So… does that mean you’re fixing it up for us? Like, our place after the wedding?”
A few seconds of silence.
Dylan didn’t deny it. He just said quietly, “Just stay here for now.”
I looked at the bulky Thermos in my hand. The last few days of holding back and being the “understanding” girlfriend suddenly felt so stupid.
I raised my hand and pushed the door open.
Both of them looked over.
Tiffany was leaning against the edge of the desk. Dylan stood in front of her. The distance between them was way past professional.
“C-Claire…” Tiffany looked startled and stumbled backward.
She was wearing stiletto heels. Her foot caught and she fell back.
“Ah!”
Her hand came down on a decorative crystal paperweight on the coffee table. The edge cut her skin. A thin line of blood appeared.
“Tiffany!”
Dylan’s face changed.
He moved faster than thought, lunging past me, his shoulder slamming into me because he was in such a rush.
I staggered back, banging my lower back against the doorframe. The Thermos fell to the floor.
A sharp, tearing pain spread fast and deep from my stomach.
My face went bone-white. I slid down the doorframe and ended up sitting on the floor.
A few feet away, Dylan was on one knee, cradling Tiffany in his arms.
He was pressing that handkerchief I’d embroidered his name on against her tiny scratch.
Only after doing all that did he turn his head and look at me with a guarded, almost disgusted expression.
Then his eyes landed on the spilled soup on the floor, and his body went rigid.
His grip on Tiffany’s wrist twitched—he didn’t even notice.
His gaze moved from the soup to my ghost-white face. For a split second, I saw something like panic flash in his eyes—even he didn’t seem to notice it.
“Claire…” He started to let go of Tiffany and get up.
But right then, Tiffany whimpered, “Dylan, it hurts so much.”
His knee, already starting to rise, went right back down.
“Claire, are we really doing this right now?” His voice was low and harsh, trying to cover his guilt with anger.
I looked at the way he was protecting her.
The pain in my stomach was so bad it hurt to breathe.
But I didn’t cry out.
I knew—this man wouldn’t feel sorry for my tears anymore.
If I screamed, I’d just look even more pathetic.
I pushed against the wall and slowly, shakily stood up.
I looked at the spilled soup, then at Dylan.
“Sorry,” I said, my voice so quiet it was almost gone. “I made a mess on your floor.”
I didn’t look at him again. I clutched my cramping stomach and walked slowly out of the studio.
As I walked out the front door, I thought I heard Dylan call my name.
I didn’t look back.
A warm trickle ran down my inner thigh. With it went every last bit of love I’d had for him.
