The Wedding House He Built for Her, Not for Me Chapter 08

The Wedding House He Built for Her, Not for Me Chapter 08

At exactly three o’clock, Garrett led his corporate team into our main conference room.

The moment he spotted me sitting at the head of the table, his footsteps faltered noticeably.

I stood up, maintaining the exact level of polished professionalism I would show any corporate client. “Mr. Fowler, please take a seat.”

Garrett’s eyes locked onto the corporate ID badge clipped to my blazer.

He had told me once that I didn’t need to work so hard after we got married because the Fowler family had more than enough money to take care of me.

At the time, I foolishly thought it was a statement of love.

Once the slide deck started, I pushed a printed copy of the updated contract across the table toward him. “This contains our revised budget projections and the construction timeline. If Fowler Enterprises has no objections, we can sign the addendum next week.”

Garrett flipped through two pages without reading them. “Are you staying on as the lead project manager?”

“Yes,” I replied.

He looked up, his eyes burning into mine. “Your personal life has been a bit unstable recently. I think it would be better for the account if your firm assigned a different point of contact.”

The entire room went dead silent.

I let out a soft, sharp laugh. “Mr. Fowler, if you have genuine doubts regarding my professional capabilities, you are welcome to raise specific performance metrics. My personal life is completely off-limits during a corporate review.”

He choked on his words, his expression stiffening. “I am simply looking out for the project’s best interest.”

Right then, the glass doors swung open, and Adrian walked in acting as our external historical consultant, uploading a high-resolution file of the restored magnolia painting onto the projector screen. “Apologies for the delay, everyone. I just got out of the preservation lab.”

Garrett’s gaze flew to him instantly, turning incredibly hostile.

Adrian ignored him entirely, turning his attention to me. “The color layer analysis for the magnolia canvas is included in the appendix. It serves as an excellent visual reference for the urban memory storyline we’re developing.”

I nodded. “Great work, thank you.”

Garrett suddenly spoke up, his voice dripping with condescension. “Since when does a piece of private heirloom artwork belong in a commercial real estate pitch?”

Adrian turned to face him fully. “Mr. Fowler, if an antique item possesses an irreplaceable story, it isn’t a liability. It’s an asset.”

The words landed like a physical slap across Garrett’s face.

I smoothly cut back into the presentation. “Our core campaign revolves around restoring the heritage of the city. The magnolia painting is merely one of our case studies. If Fowler Enterprises feels it’s inappropriate, you are fully entitled to exercise your veto power during the vote.”

Garrett slammed his binder shut. “That won’t be necessary.”

The moment the meeting adjourned, he intercepted me in the hallway outside the elevators.

“Clara, let’s grab dinner tonight. We need to talk.”

I checked the time on my phone. “I’m busy.”

“Then tomorrow night.”

“I’m busy then, too.”

Garrett’s voice cracked, sounding incredibly hollow. “Do you really have to do this?”

I clutched my files tightly against my chest. “Mr. Fowler, we are in a professional workplace.”

He flinched.

For five years, I had called him Garrett.

Now, a formal Mr. Fowler was all it took to erect a concrete wall between us, erasing half a decade of history.

Garrett went down to the parking garage but didn’t start his car right away.

Through the windshield, he watched Adrian walk out of the lobby doors carrying my trench coat in his hand.

A few minutes later, I emerged from the building.

Adrian naturally draped the coat over my shoulders to shield me from the evening chill, and I didn’t pull away.

Garrett’s grip tightened on his steering wheel until his knuckles turned completely white.

He looked down and furiously dialed my number.

It rang twice before the line cut out—I had declined the call.

He quickly pulled up our text thread and typed out: [I’m parked downstairs.]

A bright red exclamation mark popped up immediately next to the bubble.

Garrett stared at the failed delivery notice for a long time before letting out a sharp, breathless laugh that quickly dissolved into nothing.

He dropped his phone onto the passenger seat and let his forehead thump heavily against the steering wheel.

Outside the car window, a few stray magnolia petals drifted down, landing softly against the glass.

He reached out an arm to brush them away, only to hit the cold, unyielding barrier of the locked window, unable to touch a single thing.