The Day He Took His White Rose Back, I Exposed His Murder Evidence

Seventy-two hours before my wedding, I was standing in front of the fitting mirror at a bridal shop.

My best friend sent me a social media post. The red exclamation mark in the message box stung my eyes.

The post title read: "My boyfriend is getting married to his current girlfriend. What should I do?"

The comment section had already exploded.

"Are you crazy? You're the other woman in this situation!"

"How dare you post about being a homewrecker? Shameless!"

The poster was fighting back like crazy, every word dripping with self-righteous madness:

"We grew up together. I was his first love, first kiss, first everything!"

"He doesn't even like that old woman. He's only marrying her out of obligation!"

"Who's really the other woman here?"

I should have just scrolled past it like watching a joke, but my eyes were glued to the poster's profile picture.

The image showed two hands with fingers intertwined. On the man's wrist was a dark green watch face—a Richard Mille Valentine's Day limited edition. I had sold my mother Ruth Morgan's last private collection and scraped together a million dollars to order it as his engagement gift. There was only one in the world.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed by an icy hand, instantly sinking to the bottom.

I clicked into that account's homepage. The moment I opened the photo album, a dizzying feeling swept over me.

In the album, the man holding that girl close was Steven Martinez—my fiancé, who was supposed to marry me in three days.

I stared at the screen. Three years of expectations and love for our wedding shattered completely in that moment.

I didn't want to believe it, but I had to. Steven, who had been with me for three years and promised to protect me forever, had been lying to me all along.

Chapter 1

I went through every single one of the thousands of photos on that girl's profile.

From middle school to college, Steven's crazy devotion to that girl named Joan Harris was something I'd never seen in three years.

He told me he was sensitive to cold and wouldn't even go out in winter, yet he could stand outside the girls' dorm for four hours on a snowy night waiting for Joan to finish class, turning into a snowman.

He told me he hated conflict and found even arguing exhausting, yet he could get into group fights for her. He got seven stitches on his forehead—that scar I'd asked about for three years, which he only said was "from falling as a kid," was actually a badge of honor from protecting Joan.

He told me he didn't like taking photos and didn't have a single picture of us together on his phone, yet he'd taken thousands of photos of Joan. From a ponytailed girl in school uniform to a curly-haired young woman in a tank top, in every single one, the tenderness in his eyes was overwhelming. That loving gaze—he'd never given it to me.

My chest felt crushed by a boulder. I couldn't breathe.

I kept scrolling mechanically, saving those photos one by one, like holding a knife and stabbing myself in the heart over and over.

My phone buzzed. A message from Steven: [Working late tonight, don't wait up.]

The next second, that account's album updated—location tagged at the city's most exclusive bar lounge.

In the photo, Steven was on one knee, slipping a ring onto Joan's finger.

People around them were cheering. Joan was smiling shyly.

My blood ran cold instantly.

I recognized that ring. It was my mother's antique diamond ring.

When the Morgan family went bankrupt, I personally took it to the auction house. I'd saved for three years, finally waiting for it to appear at auction again. I begged Steven on my knees to help me bid on it, but he just laughed and said, "An outdated little diamond ring—it's wasted on someone who doesn't appreciate it."

I thought he hadn't bought the ring. Turns out, he bought it to please Joan.

I kept scrolling through the album like I was punishing myself, until I heard the door lock. Steven was home.

Usually, no matter how late he came back, I'd stay up waiting for him, making him hangover remedy, taking his coat, asking if he was tired.

But tonight, I just lay in bed, back to the door, not moving.

Steven lay down and reached out to hold me like usual, kissing my earlobe.

A strange women's perfume mixed with smoke and alcohol hit my nose. I have severe OCD—for three years I've even washed cups he touched separately. Now that smell felt like countless bugs crawling into my pores. My stomach churned. I pushed him away reflexively.

He frowned, his voice full of impatience. "What's wrong with you? Still upset I didn't buy you that ring?"

"That kind of antique should only belong to someone who understands and appreciates it. Giving it to you would be a waste anyway, wouldn't it?"

In the darkness, I looked at him quietly.

Steven, who I'd dated for three years, said he hated ceremonies and never came with me to try on wedding dresses. Said he was too busy with work to remember any anniversaries. Said he was naturally cold and didn't like clingy people.

Turns out it wasn't that he couldn't—he just gave all his passion and tenderness to someone else years ago.

Since he'd already proposed to Joan, since his heart was never with me, there was no point in having this wedding.

I turned back over, facing away from him.

Steven was silent for a moment, then suddenly laughed coldly and pulled out his tried-and-true trump card. "If you're going to make a big deal out of nothing, then don't buy the wedding dress tomorrow, don't invite the guests, just cancel the whole wedding."

In the past, whenever he said this, I'd immediately soften, apologize through tears, and beg him while holding his arm.

But this time, I just said calmly, my voice flat as still water without a ripple, "Okay."

Silence behind me.

A few seconds later, his furious voice exploded. "Diane Morgan, there's a limit to being unreasonable!"

I didn't turn around.

He slammed the door and left, shaking the walls.

I picked up my phone and first messaged the wedding planner: "Cancel the wedding. Keep all the deposits."

Then I scrolled to a number I'd saved three years ago but never called. After a long hesitation, I typed: [I canceled the wedding. Come get me.]