My Fiancé Took Her on Vacation Instead of Marrying Me? I Married WAY Better Chapter 08

My Fiancé Took Her on Vacation Instead of Marrying Me? I Married WAY Better Chapter 08

I nodded, said nothing, and got into the car.

The door closed, shutting out the city noise—and, it felt like, the past eight years.

Mr. Clark sat in the front passenger seat, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. There was concern in his eyes, and a restrained respect.

“Ms. Wright, Old Mr. Wright didn’t sleep at all last night.”

“He said it doesn’t matter what you choose—as long as you’re willing to come home.”

I hummed in reply, my throat tight.

All these years, I’d cut myself off from my family for one man.

My grandfather had said he’d leave me alone, but every year before my birthday, a gift would show up quietly.

Every time a rumor about me surfaced, he knew before I did.

I was just too stubborn.

I kept telling myself to wait.

Wait for Ethan to make it. Wait for him to keep his promise. Wait until I could go back with a marriage certificate and prove I hadn’t been wrong.

Now I knew. I’d lost. Completely.

Mr. Clark, as if not wanting to upset me further, changed the subject and quietly went over the arrangements after my return.

“The old man has started shortlisting candidates.”

“The files of the most suitable marriage pacts will be delivered to you this afternoon.”

“If you’re not ready, you can take your time. He said everything is up to you.”

I watched the scenery rush past and smiled.

“Take my time?”

“Isn’t Grandpa all about efficiency?”

Mr. Clark smiled too.

“That’s for outsiders.”

“For you, he’s all soft heart under a hard shell.”

The convoy headed smoothly toward the airport.

But before we reached the private terminal, the main terminal was backed up with traffic.

The previous night’s storms had delayed flights to Coral Bay, and the entrance was clogged with stranded passengers and luggage carts.

The morning sun glared off the glass walls, almost blinding.

As our convoy rolled slowly through the private lane, I glanced over at the crowd in front of the terminal.

And then I froze.

I spotted them immediately—the two most familiar figures in the crowd.

Ethan and Mira.

Ethan looked like he hadn’t slept. His face was tight with barely contained irritation, his phone pressed to his ear as he kept calling airlines and clients.

Mira, clutching a brand-new designer bag, hung on his arm, pouting about the delay and occasionally leaning her head against his shoulder.

Through the glass wall, past the flow of people and rows of luxury cars, the scene felt almost absurdly ironic.

Then Mira seemed to notice something. She looked our way.

Her eyes first caught the special plates on the lead car, then the security team and the private terminal access signs behind the convoy.

Her expression shifted—curious, then shocked, then unmistakably envious.

She tugged Ethan’s sleeve, her voice low but bursting with excitement and jealousy.

“Wow, Ethan, look at that.”

“Now that’s real old money.”

Ethan looked up, irritated. And at that exact moment, my window rolled down half an inch.

Through the morning light, across the distance between us, our eyes met—suddenly and unavoidably.