Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Scarlett
I've been back at work for nearly two weeks now, and I've thrown myself into it with an intensity that surprises even me. Projects, clients, strategy sessions, pitches. Anything to keep my mind occupied and my hands busy.
The first day back was the hardest:
I arrived at the office early, before most of my colleagues, hoping to slip in quietly and get settled before having to face anyone.
But when I reached my desk, I found flowers.
Dozens of them. Congratulatory arrangements with cards that read things like, "Best wishes on your wedding!
" and "Congratulations to the happy couple! "
Someone had forgotten to remove them.
I remember that I just stood there staring at the cheerful bouquets, my stomach twisting. Then I gathered them all up—vases, cards, everything—and carried them to the break room, leaving them on the counter for anyone who wanted them.
By the time my colleagues started arriving, I was at my desk with my laptop open, already deep into emails.
The whispers started immediately. I could feel eyes on me, hear the hushed conversations. Everyone knew what happened. The abandoned bride. The humiliation. But to their credit, most people kept their distance, giving me space to navigate my return on my own terms.
My boss, Linda, called me into her office that first morning.
"Scarlett." She gestured to the chair across from her desk.
"How are you doing?"
"I'm fine," I lied.
"Ready to get back to work."
She studied me for a moment, her expression sympathetic but professional.
"If you need more time—"
"I don't." I sat up straighter.
"I'm here. I'm ready. What do you have for me?"
Linda nodded slowly, then slid a folder across her desk.
"Small client. Short duration project. Nothing too demanding. I thought it might be good to ease you back in."
I took the folder without looking at it.
"Thank you."
"And Scarlett?" Linda's voice softened.
"If you need anything—time off, adjusted schedule, anything—you let me know."
"I will."
I left her office with the folder and dove into the project immediately.
It was a local tech startup needing help with their product launch messaging.
Simple. Manageable. Exactly what I needed.
Work has become my escape. My refuge. The one place where I can control the narrative, where I could be competent and useful and focused on something other than the wreckage of my personal life.
I established a routine quickly. Wake up at six.
Go for a run or hit a Pilates class. Shower, dress, arrive at the office by eight.
Work straight through lunch. Stay until six or seven.
Go home. Eat something simple. Read or watch mindless television.
Go to bed. Repeat. The routine kept me sane—kept me moving forward instead of spiraling.
Jane and Sarah check in regularly. Texts throughout the day. Calls in the evening. Offers to come over, to take me out, to distract me. I appreciate it, but mostly I tell them I'm fine. I'm busy. I'm handling it. They don't push, but I can hear the concern in their voices.
The truth is, I am handling it. Better than I expected. The humiliation has faded into something duller, easier to carry. The anger at Miles has cooled into resignation. I'm starting to feel stable again. Grounded.
Except for the moments when I think about Dax—which is more often than I'd like to admit. His texts sit unanswered in my phone. Two simple messages that I've read dozens of times but never responded to.
Dax: How are you?
Dax: Scarlett.
I don't know what to say to him. Don't know how to navigate whatever it is that happened between us. So I say nothing. And I tell myself that's for the best.
***
It's late on a random weeknight when the knock comes. I'm on my couch in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, reading a novel I picked up at the bookstore in New York. The knock is unexpected, pulling me out of the story.
I set the book aside and walk to the door, peering through the peephole.
My heart stops.
Miles.
He's standing in my hallway, looking disheveled in a way I've never seen him. His hair is messy, his shirt wrinkled. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. I haven't seen him since the wedding. Since he abandoned me at the altar in front of all those people.
Another knock. Harder this time.
"Scarlett." His voice is muffled through the door.
"Please. I know you're in there. I can see your light on."
My hand hovers over the deadbolt. Every instinct tells me not to open the door. To leave him standing out there. To let him feel even a fraction of what I felt when he didn't show up. But my hand moves anyway. I unlock the deadbolt and open the door, keeping the chain engaged.
Miles's face appears in the gap. His eyes are red-rimmed, desperate.
"Scarlett. Please. I know I have no right to be here, but I need to talk to you."
"Talk?" My voice comes out colder than I expected.
"You want to talk now? Two weeks later?"
"I made a terrible mistake." His words tumble out in a rush.
"I panicked. I was terrified. But I love you, Scarlett. I love you so much, and I—"
"Stop." I start to close the door.
Miles slams his hand against it, preventing it from shutting.
"Please. Just let me explain. Give me five minutes. That's all I'm asking."
"I'm going to scream," I say, my voice shaking with anger.
"Scarlett." He looks at me through the gap, his eyes pleading.
"Please. Five minutes. If you still want me gone after that, I'll leave. I promise."
I stare at him. This man I spent three years with. This man I was supposed to marry. This man who humiliated me in the worst possible way. Something in his expression—the desperation, the remorse—makes me step back.
I close the door, unhook the chain, and open it fully.
Miles steps inside, and I close the door behind him but don't move away from it.
"What can you possibly say to me?" My voice is low, controlled.
"First and foremost, you owe me a fucking apology for humiliating me and embarrassing the shit out of me on my wedding day."
"I'm sorry." The words come immediately.
"Scarlett, I'm so sorry. I know that doesn't even begin to cover it, but—"
"You're sorry?" I cut him off, my anger rising.
"You left me standing in that corridor in my wedding dress. You didn't show up. You didn't call. You sent your groomsman to tell me you weren't coming. Do you have any idea what that felt like?"
"I know." Miles runs a hand through his hair.
"I know, and I hate myself for it. I was an idiot. I was terrified. I—"
"Terrified of what, Miles?" I step closer.
"Of marrying me? Of commitment? What exactly were you so terrified of that you couldn't even face me?"
"Everything." His voice cracks.
"The permanence of it. The finality. Standing up there and promising forever when I wasn't sure I knew what forever meant."
"So you just didn't show up?" My voice rises.
"That was your solution? To leave me there and let me fall apart in front of everyone?"
"I panicked." He looks at me with tears in his eyes.
"I know that's not an excuse. I know I hurt you in the worst possible way. But I panicked, and by the time I realized what a massive mistake I was making, it was too late. You were gone. Your phone was off. I didn't know how to reach you."
"You could have tried harder." My hands are shaking.
"You could have come to my apartment. You could have called Jane or Sarah. You could have done anything other than leave me voicemails that said absolutely nothing."
"I know." He takes a step toward me.
"I was a coward. I didn't know what to say. How to explain. How to make it right."
"You can't make it right, Miles." I shake my head.
"What you did is unforgivable."
"Is it?" He searches my face.
"Scarlett, we had three years together—three good years. Doesn't that count for something? Doesn't that mean I deserve a chance to explain? To try to fix this?"
I stare at him, and a strange calm settles over me.
I'm still angry. Still hurt. But there's something else underneath it now; a realization that's been growing for two weeks.
I look at Miles—really look at him—and think about the secret I'm carrying.
The nights with Dax. The way I responded to his brother in ways I never responded to him.
Miles has no idea. He's standing here pouring his heart out, completely oblivious to what happened after he left.
The thought should make me feel guilty. Instead, it just makes me feel tired.
"You were playing a game all along," I say quietly.
"Weren't you? The engagement, the wedding planning, all of it. You were just going through the motions because it's what you thought you were supposed to do."
"No." Miles shakes his head vehemently.
"That's not true. I loved you. I love you. I just... I didn't know how to handle it. How to be what you needed."
"What I needed was someone who showed up." My voice is steady now.
"What I needed was someone who didn't run when things got real."
"I know." He takes another step closer.
"And I want to prove to you that I can be that person. That I can do better. Be better."
I don't respond. Just stand there, arms crossed, waiting.
"I didn't realize how much you meant to me until I lost you," Miles continues.
"I know that sounds cliché, but it's true. These past two weeks have been hell. I can't sleep. I can't focus. All I think about is you and how badly I fucked this up."
"Good." The word comes out harsher than I intended.
"You should feel like hell. You should think about what you did every single day."
"I do." His voice drops.
"Scarlett, please. I'm not asking you to forgive me right now. I'm not even asking you to take me back. I'm just asking for a chance to show you that I can fix this. That we can fix this."
I study him. Miles, who was always so charming, so smooth, so confident. Now he's a mess. Broken. Desperate.
And I feel... nothing. Not the love I thought I'd feel. Not the anger I expected. Just a strange, hollow emptiness.
"Do you still love me?" he asks suddenly, his eyes searching mine.
"I know you do. I can see it. We can get past this, Scarlett. I know we can."
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because I don't know if I still love him or if I'm just holding onto the idea of who I thought he was.
"It's late," I say instead, moving toward the door.
"I have to go to bed."
Miles's face falls. "Scarlett—"
"I need time, Miles." I open the door.
"I need to think."
He stands there for a moment, then nods slowly.
"Okay. I understand. But... can I take you to dinner? This weekend? Your favorite place. Just let me try to make this right."
I hesitate. Every rational part of me says no. Says to close this door and move on with my life.
But there's a small part—a part I don't want to acknowledge—that wonders if Miles deserves a chance to explain. If three years together mean anything.
"I'll think about it," I say finally.
Relief floods his face.
"Thank you. That's all I'm asking. Just... think about it."
He moves toward me, leaning in like he's going to kiss me.
I push him away. "Don't."
He stops immediately, hands raised.
"I'm sorry. I just—"
"Goodnight, Miles."
He nods and steps into the hallway. I watch him walk toward the elevator, then close the door and lock it. I lean against the wood, my heart pounding.
Miles. Here. In my apartment. After two weeks of walking away. Apologizing. Begging for another chance. Looking at me like I'm the only thing that matters. All I can think about is how calm I felt. How detached. Like I was watching the scene play out from a distance instead of living it.
I push off the door and walk to my bedroom. My phone sits on the nightstand, the screen dark. I pick it up and open my messages. Dax's name stares back at me. Two unanswered texts that feel heavier now than they did an hour ago.
Miles wants me back. Wants to prove himself. Wants to fix what he broke. But I don't know if I want him to—I don't know what I want anymore.
I set my phone down and climb into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. Tomorrow I'll think about Miles and his dinner invitation. Tomorrow I'll figure out how I feel and what I want.
Tonight, I just need to sleep.