The Wedding House He Built for Her, Not for Me Chapter 06

The Wedding House He Built for Her, Not for Me Chapter 06

I moved back into my mother’s old cottage and ordered some takeout to settle in.

When the doorbell rang an hour later, I assumed it was the delivery driver.

But when I pulled the door open, Garrett was standing on the porch holding the magnolia painting. His designer suit was covered in dust, and his eyes were heavily bloodshot.

“I brought the painting back,” he said, his voice raw.

I looked at the canvas and said, “Thank you.”

The absolute formality of my gratitude made his entire face stiffen.

He held the painting out further. “I can find an expert to restore the canvas, and I promise we can remodel the townhouse to look exactly how you want it.”

I took the frame from his hands but didn’t step aside to let him inside. “There’s no need. I’ll handle the restoration myself.”

Garrett’s eyes dropped to my bare ring finger. “Where’s the ring?”

“I left it for you,” I said.

“That’s not what I want,” he muttered, his voice cracking slightly. “Clara, I know what I said yesterday was completely uncalled for. I admit I was an idiot, but I swear I never looked at you as just a placeholder.”

I stared at him and asked, “Do I look like her?”

The question caught him completely off guard, rendering him speechless.

“The very first time you met me,” I continued, “it was exactly three months after Valerie moved abroad. You took me to the exact restaurants she loved, you gave me a brooch that matched her style, you praised me for being quiet, and you told me you loved that I never demanded anything from you.”

Garrett’s mouth tightened into a hard, rigid line.

I offered him a cold smile. “See? I remember the details much better than you do.”

He reached out, his hand hovering in the air as if he wanted to touch me, before dropping uselessly to his side. “I will cut ties with Valerie. I promise she will never set foot in our house again.”

“There is no our house anymore, Garrett,” I reminded him gently.

Garrett’s expression hardened. “Clara Lennox, don’t say things you can’t take back.”

Right then, the front door of the cottage directly across the driveway swung open, and Adrian Chandler walked out carrying a heavy wooden toolbox.

When he spotted me, his tone was entirely natural. “Did you get the painting back? I brought over my restoration kit, so let’s take a look at the creasing before it sets.”

Garrett’s head snapped toward him, his eyes instantly flashing with hostility. “Who the hell are you?”

Adrian set the toolbox down by my welcome mat. “I’m an old college classmate of Clara’s, and I happen to be the art conservator who’s going to fix this painting.”

Garrett let out a cold, biting laugh. “An old college classmate who just happens to live right next door to her?”

I broke the silence, my voice completely level. “This cottage belonged to my mother. The house next door is Adrian’s professional studio. He’s been working out of that space for years.”

Adrian shot Garrett a dismissive glance. “Mr. Fowler, if you don’t have any actual business here, I suggest you clear the doorway. If the canvas absorbs any more moisture from the humidity, it’s going to be a nightmare to fix.”

Garrett’s fists clenched tightly at his sides.

I stepped back into the foyer with the frame. “Go home, Garrett.”

Just before the door clicked shut, he blurted out, “Clara, I never signed off on canceling the wedding.”

I paused for a fraction of a second. “I don’t need your permission.”

The door shut completely.

Garrett stood out on the porch for a long time, watching the neighborhood lights flicker on as the sun went down, entirely motionless.

His phone vibrated continuously in his pocket—calls from his mother, Valerie, and his executive assistants were flooding in.

Eventually, he clicked answer on a call from his secretary.

The assistant spoke with extreme caution, “Mr. Fowler, all the wedding vendors have officially processed the cancellation paperwork. Miss Lennox cleared the remaining balances personally, and she’s also scheduled a courier to return all of her personal items from the townhouse.”

Garrett kept his eyes glued to my closed front door. “Her personal items?”

“Yes, sir,” the assistant hesitated. “She left a note stating that any items added to the property without her explicit consent should be returned to their original owner.”

Garrett ended the call and walked over to the elevator banks of his office building a few hours later, catching his reflection in the mirrored doors.

His collar was completely disheveled, and his arms felt entirely empty.

He suddenly remembered how I used to sit quietly in the corner of his corporate lobby for hours just waiting for him to finish his meetings, always holding a fresh bunch of magnolias in my lap.

He had told me once that the scent was too faint and that he preferred the vibrant, loud energy of sunflowers.

Back then, I had simply hid the flowers behind my back and whispered that I wouldn’t bring them again.

He pressed the elevator button, his fingers shaking so violently it took him three tries just to make it light up.