My Fiancé Postponed Our Marriage License Seventeen Times For His Intern Chapter 08

My Fiancé Postponed Our Marriage License Seventeen Times For His Intern Chapter 08

A month later.

In the 9th arrondissement, I sat by the window of a small café tucked along a quiet street. A croissant and a latte rested in front of me, untouched for the moment.

Outside, the city moved at its usual pace—people hurrying past with dogs in tow, a stroller rolling over uneven pavement, someone lingering at a secondhand bookstall.

“Liora?”

I looked up.

A blond man stood by the table, a file tucked under his arm.

“Alistair.” I rose to greet him, switching easily into French before motioning to the seat across from me. “Please.”

Alistair Moreau—senior partner, my direct supervisor.

Early forties, composed, the kind of presence that didn’t need to try.

“Settling in alright?” he asked as he sat, ordering an espresso without looking at the menu.

“Better than I expected,” I said. “Though I still miss a proper breakfast sometimes.”

He smiled. “I just got back from a business trip. Someone asked me to pass this along to you.”

From his briefcase, he pulled out a slim envelope and slid it across the table.

I frowned slightly. “From who?”

“No idea,” he said with a small shrug. “A man asked me to pass it along. Claimed to be your husband.”

For a second, I didn’t move.

Then I opened it.

A photograph.

Our wedding day.

I stood there in white, smiling like I believed in forever. He stood beside me in the suit I had chosen, looking just as certain.

The room behind us blurred into flowers and light.

I turned it over.

[I didn’t throw it away. I had it framed.

Come back. I was wrong.

—Callen]

I stared at the handwriting longer than I meant to.

“You alright?” Alistair asked carefully.

I slipped the photo back into the envelope and set it aside.

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded and shifted the conversation back to work.

Still, I could feel it—the quiet curiosity, the unspoken question he chose not to ask.

Back at my apartment that afternoon, I placed the photo on my desk and sat there for a while, looking at it without really seeing it.

Over the past month, Callen’s calls had gone from dozens a day… to a handful… to almost nothing.

The messages changed too.

Long explanations turned into short check-ins.

[Did you eat?]

[Are you sleeping okay?]

[Is Paris cold?]

I didn’t reply. I didn’t block him either.

Blocking him would only mean new numbers, new calls.

He’d always been persistent.

I knew exactly how far that would go.

My phone buzzed.

Tamsin: [Do you know what he looks like right now?]

Before I could answer, another message came through—a photo.

Callen sat alone at a street-side diner we used to go to.

A bowl of noodles sat in front of him, untouched.

His head was lowered, his face half-hidden in shadow.

He looked thinner. Unshaven. His hair unkempt.

Nothing like the man who used to have everything perfectly in place.

Another message followed.

[He goes there every day. Just sits for hours.]

[Mireya tried to find him. He wouldn’t see her.]

[People at the firm are saying he’s losing it. Honestly? He deserves it.]

I stared at the screen, my finger hovering over the reply box.

For a long moment, I didn’t move.

Then I locked my phone and set it aside.