He Said Don’t Wait, So I Married Someone Else Chapter 02

He Said Don’t Wait, So I Married Someone Else Chapter 02

I swiped to answer but remained silent.
“Maya? Baby? Are you still in Vegas? Are you okay?” Garrett’s voice was frayed with exhaustion, and an undercurrent of irritation he probably didn’t even hear.
“I’m here,” I said, my voice as even as if we were discussing the weather.
“Oh, thank God,” he sighed in relief. “Listen, I’m really sor—”
A frail voice cut in from the background. Sloane. “Garrett? Who are you talking to? The doctor said I need someone with me…”
Garrett’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, though he’d clearly forgotten I was still on the line. “Shh, Sloane, it’s okay. I’m just explaining things to Maya.”
His voice came back to the phone, laced with an impatient sort of placation. “Baby, I’m sorry. Sloane’s situation is more complicated than I thought. She—”
“Let me talk to Maya,” Sloane suddenly insisted, her voice tearful and close. Garrett must have put the call on speaker. “Maya? Oh my God, I am so, so sorry. I just wanted to go to our—oh, no, your—new house and see if you needed help with any decorating. And I saw your wedding dress… it was so beautiful. I just wanted to… to imagine how beautiful you’d look in it, and then… I was holding red wine, and I accidentally…”
She dissolved into sobs. “There’s… red wine on the dress. I really didn’t mean to, Maya. Please don’t be mad at Garrett. It’s all my fault!”

I closed my eyes, feeling my blood turn to ice.
Garrett immediately started soothing her. “Sloane, it’s okay. Don’t cry. You didn’t mean it. Maya won’t blame you, right, baby?”
He didn’t even wait for my answer. “And Maya, don’t worry about the dress. We’ll fly back to Charleston tomorrow, and I’ll take you to order a new one. Vera Wang. Any style you want, okay? Consider it… an early wedding present.”
“Garrett,” I interrupted, my voice flat. “Why was Sloane in our new house?”
“Oh, uh… her apartment had a burst pipe. You know she lives alone. I told her she could stay there for a few days. I couldn’t just send her to a hotel.”
“Then why did she touch my wedding dress?”
“She just… you know how women are. She was curious. She wanted to see—”
“No, Garrett, I don’t know,” I said, each word perfectly clear. “Because I would never touch another woman’s wedding dress.”
Silence.
Then Garrett’s voice, full of disbelief. “Maya, you’re not actually jealous, are you? Come on. It’s just Sloane.”
“You’re right.” A profound weariness settled over me, a hollow space where my heart used to be. “It’s always just Sloane.”
Too late, Garrett.
I hung up.
The world fell silent.

My phone lit up again. Not another call from Garrett, but a new message from Noah.
*Your first-class ticket back to Charleston is in your email. A car will be at your hotel in ten minutes to take you to the airport. Don’t worry, Maya.*
I stared at the words. *Don’t worry, Maya.* My eyes suddenly stung.

In the airport lounge, I finally broke. I looked across the small table at Noah, who was typing away on his laptop.
“Why?” I asked.
He looked up, his dark eyes reflecting my own rumpled, confused image with perfect clarity. “Why what?”
“Why did you agree so fast? Noah, I asked you to marry me, and you didn’t even ask why.”
He closed his laptop and leaned forward, his gaze so focused it felt like we were the only two people in the world.
“Because,” he said, his voice low and steady, “I’ve been waiting six years for you to ask.”
My breath caught in my throat.

“Six years ago, in Savannah, twenty-four hours before Hurricane Helen made landfall,” he began, his voice painting a picture I’d long since forgotten. “The entire city was evacuating. The highway was a parking lot. My tire blew, my phone was dead, and I was stranded in a business suit with a briefcase. Everyone was laying on their horns, trying to push ahead. But you stopped. You, in an old Ford pickup filled with flowers.”
The memory came rushing back. That hot, anxious afternoon, the air thick with the pre-storm smell of salt and ozone. The man in the expensive suit, looking utterly miserable on the side of the road.
“You gave me water, helped me change the spare with your own tools, and handed me the last sandwich in your truck.” A faint, nostalgic smile touched his lips. “You told me your name was Maya, you were a florist, and you were heading north to stay with a friend. You didn’t even ask for my number. You just said, ‘I hope we both make it out of this okay.’”
“From that day on, I told myself…” His gaze locked with mine, filled with a burning tenderness I’d never seen before. “If I ever had the privilege of standing by your side, I would never let you face another hurricane alone.”
“My marriage to you, Maya,” he said, each word as solemn as a vow sworn in court, “was not an impulse. It was a wish I waited six years to see come true.”

On the flight back to Charleston, I finally called Jenna back.
“So you really did it? You married the hurricane-rescue lawyer you met one time?” Jenna’s voice had shifted from shock to cautious excitement.
“Yes.” I looked out at the clouds, feeling calmer than I had in years.
“Oh my God! Mrs. Caldwell!” Jenna shrieked. I heard the distinct *pop* of a champagne cork in the background. “I always said those Whitaker hypocrites didn’t deserve you! We are celebrating! We are celebrating your escape from that swamp of a family right now!”
Her pure, unadulterated joy was the thing that finally broke me. The tears I’d been holding back finally fell, not from sadness, but from the relief of being seen.
“Jenna,” I choked out. “I just… I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t stand there and watch him choose someone else, then get praised for being the ‘understanding’ one.”
“I know, baby. I know,” Jenna’s voice softened. “You are not a second choice. You never should have been. And now you’re a Caldwell. Sounds a hell of a lot classier than Whitaker, if you ask me.”
She made me laugh through my tears.

When I hung up, the plane was beginning its descent. The moment we touched down and my phone found a signal, a new message from Noah appeared.
*Do not go back to the apartment you shared with Garrett. I’ve arranged a new place for you in Harleston Village, close to your studio. It’s a terraced apartment. The lease is for one year, rent paid in full. The digital key is on your phone.*
I stared at the screen, stunned.
A second message followed.
*And one more thing. A folder. I hope you never need it, but you have to have it.*
Below the text was a cloud link titled: *Emergency Plan*.
My fingers trembled as I tapped it open.
Inside were several neatly organized subfolders.
One was labeled “Broken Promises.” It contained screenshots from the past three years, meticulously documenting every date, time, and excuse Garrett had used to cancel on me for Sloane, down to every text that read, *Sorry, baby, Sloane’s having an emergency.*
Another folder was titled “Social Media Evidence.” It was a collection of Sloane’s Instagram posts, each one a masterclass in passive aggression. A selfie of her wearing a necklace Garrett had given *me*, captioned: *Some things just find their rightful owner.* A shot of her on the sofa in our new house, wrapped in Garrett’s jacket, captioned: *It feels so good to be taken care of.*
There was another folder titled “Legal Templates.” It held drafts of legal letters for defamation and reputational damage, response strategies for terminating a commercial lease, and even a draft for a restraining order.
I leaned back in my seat, my heart hammering against my ribs.
This wasn’t a man’s impulsive gesture of love.
This was a top attorney, building an impenetrable fortress for the woman he had loved for six years, in the only way he knew how.

That night, I lay in the soft bed of my new downtown apartment, staring at the ceiling.
My phone vibrated relentlessly on the nightstand.
Missed calls from Garrett: 15.
Unread texts: 27.
I didn’t open a single one.