Always the Fiancée, Never at the Altar

I've been engaged to the same man seven times.

Seven proposals. Seven rings. Seven wedding dates set, invitations printed, dresses fitted.

Zero marriages.

Every time Dove Sinclair—Gideon's first love—flies back to the country, my engagement gets cancelled. And I get shipped off to wherever Gideon decides to send me this time.

"She'll be here for Valentine's Day," Gideon said—my fiancé, seven times over—sliding a passport and plane ticket across the kitchen counter. "The engagement party is postponed."

Not cancelled. Postponed. He always says postponed.

I picked up the passport without looking at him. Norway this time. Last year it was Switzerland. Before that, New Zealand, Portugal, Japan, Canada, Australia.

Seven years. Seven countries. Seven long-term visas.

Still no marriage certificate.

I walked to the living room and started taking down the photos. Our photos. There weren't many left—I'd learned to keep the frames mostly empty.

"You know the drill," Gideon said from behind me. "She gets uncomfortable seeing your things around."

I knew the drill.

Clear out the closet. Pack away the toiletries. Remove every trace of myself from this apartment so Dove could move in and feel like she belonged here.

Which she did, apparently. More than I ever had.

I opened the bedroom drawer and slipped off my engagement ring. The sixth one—or was it the seventh? I couldn't remember anymore. They all looked the same. They all ended up in the same drawer.

Gideon watched me fold my clothes into the suitcase. His arms were crossed, but there was something almost like approval in his eyes.

"You're faster this time," he said.

I was.

The first time he sent me away, it took me three days to pack. I cried through every single one of them.

The third time, I finished in one day but refused to leave until he physically put me in the car.

Now I could do it in four hours. Muscle memory.

I zipped up the suitcase and paused. When was the last time I celebrated Valentine's Day?

I genuinely couldn't remember.

"I'll pick you up as soon as she leaves," Gideon said. "Two weeks, maybe three. Then we'll reschedule the engagement party."

I used to cling to those words. Used to count down the days until he'd call and tell me I could come home.

Now they just sounded like white noise.

"The flight's tomorrow morning," he added. "I booked you a nice hotel. You'll like it there."

He said that every time. Like he was doing me a favor. Like he was sending me on vacation instead of exiling me so his ex-girlfriend wouldn't feel awkward sleeping in my bed.

I grabbed my coat and headed for the door.

Gideon caught my arm. "Wait."

I turned.

Something flickered across his face. Guilt, maybe. Or something that wanted to look like guilt.

"Maybe you don't have to go this time," he said slowly. "You could stay somewhere nearby. A hotel in the city. I'll come get you as soon as she settles in—"

"It's fine." I pulled my arm free. "Brynn and I planned a trip anyway. She's been wanting to see the Northern Lights."

Gideon's expression shifted. The guilt vanished, replaced by something harder.

His jaw tightened. "Seren, I told you not to come back early. You're not thinking of leaving late either, are you? You need to be gone before Dove arrives."

I knew which time he meant.

The first time he sent me away, I came back early.

I couldn't stand it—being so far from him, not knowing what he was doing, imagining Dove in our apartment, in our bed, living the life that was supposed to be mine.

So I flew back two weeks ahead of schedule. Showed up at the door with flowers and a desperate smile, ready to surprise him.

Gideon didn't even let me inside.

He screamed at me in the hallway for twenty minutes. Called me selfish. Reckless. Said I'd almost ruined everything, that Dove had nearly seen me, that I had no idea how much damage I could have caused.

I spent that night in a hotel, crying until I couldn't breathe.

The next morning, he sent me to Canada. Booked the flight himself. Didn't say goodbye.

But I didn't learn my lesson. Not that time.

It took until the third time for me to finally learn.

We were so close. The wedding was two days away. Invitations sent, venue booked, dress fitted. White roses for the bouquet because Gideon once said they reminded him of me.

Then Dove showed up at the rehearsal dinner. Tears streaming down her face, telling everyone she'd just found out about the wedding.

I went straight up to confront her. Gideon pulled me aside and told me I was making a scene.

The invitations got recalled. I became a joke in our circle—the girl who couldn't make it to her own wedding.

After that, I stopped coming back on my own. If Gideon wanted me home, he could get me himself.

Not that the second time was any better. I got mugged in Portugal, ended up in a hospital alone for three days. When I finally reached Gideon, I heard Dove laughing in the background.

That was then. This time, I was determined to be different.

"Relax," I said. "Brynn's been counting down the days. She won't let me delay even if I wanted to."

Gideon didn't look convinced.

Then a voice came from the doorway.

"Am I interrupting?"

Dove. Three days early, suitcase in hand. She wasn't supposed to arrive until after I left—but Gideon didn't look surprised.

She went straight to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek.

"I missed you," she murmured. "Couldn't wait any longer."

Gideon didn't push her away.

Brynn was right behind me, frozen. She'd come to help me pack.

Dove finally noticed us. Her eyes swept over the empty frames, the half-cleared closet, my toiletries on the table.

"Oh, you're still here?" She smiled. "You're so thorough with the packing. Last time you left a coat behind. I thought it was the cleaning lady's."

Brynn lunged. I caught her arm.

"Don't," I said quietly.

"She can't just—"

"Don't."

Dove had already pulled Gideon to the couch, curling into his side like a cat. He let her.

I went back to packing. Brynn helped in furious silence.

Gideon watched me fold the last of my clothes. Something flickered across his face—confusion, maybe. Like he was waiting for me to cry, to beg, to make a scene like I used to.

But I just zipped up the suitcase.

He walked over, voice low. "This is the last time. Dove's getting married after Valentine's Day. She won't be back."

I'd heard this before.

"Once she's gone, we'll do the wedding. For real."

I looked at him. The man I'd given seven years, my family, my pride.

"Sure," I said.

He smiled, relieved.

Too bad. I won't be coming back.

*And you'll never find me.