52 Unfinished Proposals and One Forever Goodbye

Estelle's POV

Over the past six years, my boyfriend, Xavier Sterling, and I had survived fifty-one failed attempts at an engagement. Fifty-one times, he had aborted the mission mid-way for the sake of another woman.

"It's pathetic, really. Look at that getup."

The whisper drifted over from the wait station. It was hushed, but in the acoustic vacuum of the empty dining room, it hit me like a shout.

Today was attempt number fifty-two.

I sat alone in the center of the cavernous hall. I wasn't just the punchline of a joke anymore; I felt like the main attraction at a public execution. Shame burned through my veins like liquid fire.

For tonight—for the proposal Xavier had solemnly promised our friends would happen six months ago—I was wearing the dress.

A white silk gown I had designed myself six years ago, specifically to marry him in. Under the unforgiving recessed lights, it no longer looked bridal. It looked like a costume.

The waiter swept past my table again, averting his eyes as if my bad luck were contagious. "Ma'am, the chef is closing down the kitchen... is the gentleman still joining us?"

"Just a little longer." I clutched my napkin until my knuckles turned white, my voice barely a whisper, a mantra of self-delusion. "It's our six-year anniversary. Maybe it's just traffic."

The excuse was a reflex. Even I had lost count of how many times Xavier had left me out in the cold. But this pale lie couldn't conjure him out of thin air.

The ambient noise faded until the last table cleared out. The only sound left was the distant clinking of silverware being polished.

The clock struck ten. The restaurant felt hollow, exposing the stark reality of closing time. Fighting back a stomach cramp, I finally inhaled a shaky breath and dialed the number I knew by heart.

The call connected instantly. No ringing, just the rustle of fabric against a microphone—a pocket dial.

Then, the voice that had been churning my stomach all night came through crystal clear.

"Oww... Xavier, it stings... I think I nicked it..."

Wendy. Her voice dripped with a cloying, sugary weepiness that made me want to retch.

A split second later, Xavier's voice rang out—warm, soothing, possessing the kind of tenderness I had waited two hours in the shadows for, but never received.

"Shh, don't move. I'm blowing on it. It's just a tiny cut, sweetie. It'll stop hurting in a second."

The sheer absurdity of it struck me like a physical blow. My grip on the phone tightened until my fingers went numb. Into the receiver, I croaked out a dry, "Xavier?"

The tenderness on the other end died instantly.

"Estelle?" Xavier's tone shifted gears to that familiar, impatient frequency. "Why are you calling and rushing me? Wendy just cut her hand on some fruit. I'm helping her clean it up. Can't you be a little more mature about this? I need to breathe, too."

Mature. I tasted the ash of the word. I looked at my reflection in the dark window—a ghost in a wedding dress. "I am waiting for you at Per Se. Tonight is the night you propose. Are you coming?"

"I told you I'm on my way! Stop riding me, okay?"

The line went dead.

I lowered the phone. "This is the last time", I sentenced myself in the quiet of my mind. If that ring didn't end up on my finger tonight, this six-year-long monologue was officially over.

Twenty minutes later, just as the manager was approaching to respectfully ask me to leave, the heavy double doors burst open.

Xavier rushed in, bringing the cold wind with him. His tie was crooked, and there was a suspicious smudge of foundation on his cuff, but his frantic footsteps halted when he saw me.

In that moment, I saw a flash of genuine awe in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Estelle," he said, striding over. The irritation in his voice dissolved into a relieved exhaustion. "But you know how fragile Wendy is. You're different—you're stronger than her. You've always been so low-maintenance. I knew you'd understand a little hiccup like this... but hey, I made it."

He reached the table but didn't sit. Instead, his hand went straight to his jacket pocket.

My breath caught in my throat.

A navy blue velvet box appeared in his palm.

Xavier dropped to one knee. The few remaining staff members let out soft gasps.

"Estelle," he looked up at me, his eyes shining with a sincerity that made the phone call from thirty minutes ago seem like a hallucination. "These past six years... you've worked so hard. I know you've swallowed a lot of pride, but tonight, I want to give you a home."

My eyes stung. Tears welled up instantly. Even though logic screamed at me that this relationship was riddled with holes, the foolish fantasy of the "reformed bad boy" peaked right then.

This was what I wanted, wasn't it?

I reached out a trembling right hand, ready to accept the promise that was six years late.

My fingertips were an inch from the velvet.

Rrrring. Rrrring.

A jarring video call ringtone shattered the atmosphere like a knife through canvas.

Xavier's face crumbled. Panic replaced the deep affection instantly. He sprang up from the floor like a coiled spring and tapped the screen.

"Xavier! Do you see where I am? The wind is so strong..." Wendy's hysterical shrieking echoed through the silent restaurant. "If you don't come back, I'm jumping from here! I'll make you regret this for the rest of your life!"

"Wendy! No! You're going to be fine! Don't move!"

Snap.

One second before my finger could brush the ring, Xavier slammed the box shut. He shoved the blue box violently back into his pocket.

He was already backpedaling, his words tumbling over each other, his eyes fixed on the exit. "If I don't go, she'll actually jump! I saw the edge of the roof! Estelle, you know she's unstable! The proposal is just a formality, you saw the ring—tomorrow! I swear, I'll make it up to you tomorrow!"

"Xavier..."

My hand was still frozen in mid-air, holding the pose of a woman ready to accept happiness.

But he didn't look at my hand. Not once.

He spun on his heel and sprinted toward the door, radiating the resolve of a lone hero rushing to save the world, leaving his so-called "beloved" abandoned on center stage in a wedding dress.

At the door, perhaps to assuage a microscopic speck of guilt, he skidded to a halt and shouted at the distant sommelier:

"Get this lady a glass of her favorite Strawberry Champagne! Put it on my tab! Cheer her up!"

The heavy restaurant doors slammed shut behind him with a dull thud. It sounded like a gavel falling, ending the trial of my last six years.

Moments later, a waiter approached with a practiced, sympathetic smile, placing a flute of pink liquid on the table. The bubbles danced merrily against the glass, releasing a cloyingly sweet scent.

Strawberry Champagne.

I stared at the glass and burst out laughing, even as tears slid silently down my cheeks.

We had shared a bed for over two thousand nights. He could remember that Wendy was afraid of heights and the dark. Yet, he couldn't remember that I was severely allergic to strawberries. One sip could send me into anaphylactic shock.

Moreover, Strawberry Champagne was Wendy's favorite.

On this so-called night of commitment, the last thing he left me was a cup of poison capable of killing me, labeled with another woman's preference.

"Ma'am, your drink," the waiter reminded me gently.

"I won't be needing it."

I stood up. I didn't glance back at the empty seat.

I opened the hidden compartment of my clutch, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number that had been dormant for six years.

It rang once before being snatched up. The voice on the other end vibrated with suppressed excitement and disbelief. "Miss Verlin?"

"It's me. Tell my brother I'm coming home the day after tomorrow," I spoke into the phone, my voice steady, stripped of all emotion.

"Prep the private jet. And make sure you're there to pick me up."

I paused, sweeping a cold gaze over the opulent, artificial romance of the restaurant, and the corner of my mouth quirked up in a sharp, mirthless arc.

"I'm done slumming it."