The Belated Bride: Becoming My Own Muse Chapter 21

The Belated Bride: Becoming My Own Muse Chapter 21

The light in Christian’s eyes dimmed, bit by bit.

“Claire. These three years. Can we really not start over?”

I looked at him.

“You want to start over because you’ve finally realized I can walk away.”

“But I want to end it because I’ve finally realized I am capable of walking away.”

He opened his mouth but no words came out.

I handed him a printed document.

“Next Monday, 10 a.m. Manhattan Supreme Court. If you don’t show, the lawsuit materials will be delivered to Van Ness Tech’s legal department by that afternoon.”

Christian looked down at the paper.

“Do you have to be this absolute?”

“Yes.”

I said, “I wasn’t absolute before. So all of you assumed I had no bottom line.”

I turned and walked back into the building.

At the door, he suddenly called out, “What about Grant Ashford?”

I stopped.

“After the divorce. Will you be with him?”

I didn’t look back.

“Christian, you still don’t get it.”

“I’m not leaving you to walk toward another man.”

“I’m leaving to walk toward myself.”

Silence stretched behind me for a long time.

I pushed the door open and went inside.

Tara was peeking through the glass window, her whole face tense with anxiety.

“Claire, has Mr. Van Ness left yet?”

I glanced down at the street below.

Christian was still standing there, holding the document I’d given him. He looked like a man reading a contract for the first time and failing to understand its terms.

“Not yet.”

Tara whispered, “He looks like he actually regrets it now.”

I pulled the curtain shut.

“Regret is useless.”

“Why?”

I sat back down at my worktable and picked up my needle and thread.

“Because regret only proves he hurts now.”

“It doesn’t erase the way I hurt before.”

On the day of the show, the first snow of the year fell on New York City.

The venue was the Ashford Group’s art center.

Belated was placed in the finale slot.

The restored dress looked more striking than before.

The damaged clasp on the back… I hadn’t replaced it with a new one.

I’d had the embroiderer stitch a small spray of silver thread beside the wound.

Like a bloom pushing up through cracked ice.

When Grant saw the finished piece, he stood still for a long time.

“It’s better than it was before.”