He Said Waiting Is Romantic But Not For Me Chapter 07

He Said Waiting Is Romantic But Not For Me Chapter 07

Six months later. 

London Docklands. 

I stood by the floor–to–ceiling window of my office, a 

black coffee in hand, watching the boats move slowly down 

the Thames. 

These six months, I’d poured every ounce of energy into 

work. 

The London branch’s performance had doubled. I’d gotten a special mention from the regional president. Two 

promotions in a row. 

On days without internal collapse, even breathing felt free. 

The bruise on my wrist had long since faded. Just a faint trace remained–barely visible unless you looked closely. 

My lawyer back home emailed me every month with updates on the divorce. 

Cole was refusing to sign. 

He’d rejected every settlement. He was dodging court 

papers. 

My lawyer said he was going all over the world trying to track down my address in London. 

I wrote back three words: [Don’t bother. Two–year separation. Then I file for no–fault divorce.] 

Back in Oakhaven. 

A late autumn night. Temperature dropping fast. 

Cole sat in the house that used to be theirs. 

Nothing had changed. 

Even the slippers she’d left by the door–he hadn’t moved 

them. 

But the house no longer smelled like cooking. No warm 

light stayed on for him anymore. 

At ten o’clock, Cole’s stomach ulcer kicked in. 

He doubled over in pain, sweat pouring down his face, and 

tore through the drawers looking for antacids. 

He pulled open the drawer under the TV stand. His hand 

stopped. 

Empty. 

Then he remembered. Six months ago, Tessa had cut her 

finger. 

He’d given her the whole first aid kit. 

Back then, Elise had been crouched on the floor, clutching 

her stomach in pain. 

And he hadn’t even poured her a glass of hot water before 

rushing Tessa to the hospital. 

“Damn it.” 

Cole slapped himself. Hard. 

He collapsed onto the floor. The pain in his stomach was nothing compared to what was inside his chest. 

At the back of the empty drawer, his fingers found a stack of papers held together with a rubber band. 

He pulled them out. 

They were all of Elise’s hospital receipts from the last 

three years. 

Acute gastroenteritis. Severe shellfish allergy. A 103–degree fever requiring an IV. 

Most of them were from late nights, or times when he’d 

been out with clients or helping Tessa move. 

On every single one, under “Family Member Signature,” 

Elise had written her own name. 

He’d thought she was so independent. That she could 

handle anything. 

It turned out she wasn’t fine alone. 

She just knew that even if she called, he wouldn’t come. 

The doorbell rang. 

Cole dragged himself to the door, eyes bloodshot, his 

whole body thin and hollowed out. 

Tessa stood outside. Holding a thermos of soup. Full makeup on, wearing cloying perfume. 

“Cole, I made you beef stew. You haven’t been coming 

into the office much lately. I was worried about you.” 

She tried to step inside, eyes scanning the place. 

Cole blocked the doorway. His gaze at her was like looking 

at a piece of rotting garbage. 

Six months. He’d finally seen her for what she was. 

She wasn’t fragile. She was a parasite. She used helplessness to drain resources from people. 

And for three years, to feed that cheap “need to be needed,” he’d pushed away the one woman who was truly independent, resilient, and had loved him completely. 

“Tessa. Check your email. HR sent your termination 

letter.” 

Tessa’s face went white. The thermos nearly slipped from her hands. “Cole… what do you mean?” 

“Exactly what I said.” 

He stared at her, disgust bleeding through every word. 

“You’ll get the standard severance. Don’t ever show up in front of me again. You make me sick.” 

“Why?” Tessa burst into tears on cue. “This is about Elise, isn’t it? She’s just insecure and can’t stand anyone else–how is that my fault?” 

“Shut up.” 

Cole’s voice went icy cold. Deadly. 

“You don’t get to say her name.” 

He slammed the door in her face. 

Then he leaned back against it and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. 

He looked at the coffee table. 

The yellow roses Tessa had picked out were long dead. 

Dried, rotting petals littered the surface, smelling of decay. 

That day, he’d taken the flowers she hated most and 

handed them to her like a consolation prize for neglecting her. 

Now he finally understood why she’d been so calm. 

Because people don’t feel anything when they look at something already dead.