A rush job pinged in the part-time group chat.

"Urgent: one assistant needed for a luxury cruise engagement banquet this Friday. Task: delivering the engagement ring. Pay: $5,000, settled on the spot. Interested? See employer details below."

I tapped open the file—and froze. The air left my lungs.

Across the table, Adrian—sipping the spare rib soup I'd made—set down his bowl and dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

"Thursday, I'm heading to the National Culinary Association's closed-door R&D session. Phones get confiscated. I won't be back until Monday."

"I'll be slammed all weekend, so don't freak out if I'm slow to reply."

I stared at the photo in the engagement announcement—him and another woman—then nodded slowly and accepted the job.

After eight years together, I deserved to witness him propose to someone else.

The shock passed quickly. My mind went razor-sharp.

Filling out the application on my phone, I glanced up at Adrian.

"Didn't the association's R&D event wrap up last month? Why is there suddenly another session?"

Adrian paused mid-wipe, his brows knitting tight, irritation flashing across his face.

"Are you checking up on me again?"

He scoffed, unlocked his phone, and shoved it in my face.

"See for yourself."

An email from the "Culinary Association Secretariat" filled the screen—a closed-door itinerary from Thursday to Sunday, Adrian's name highlighted in red.

Sent ten minutes ago.

The timing matched the cruise job posting perfectly.

"I stopped letting you check my phone because I thought you'd finally grown up. But here we are. Summer, don't you get exhausted being this paranoid?"

I stared at the convincingly forged email, fists clenched under the table, then looked up.

"Adrian, you promised last month we'd file for our marriage license by year-end. Does that still stand?"

Adrian went still for several seconds.

Then he shot to his feet, knocking his chair over with a crash.

"You don't trust me? You'd use a marriage license as a leash? That's insane."

"Summer, I did promise marriage, but it should be built on trust—not weaponized as some kind of loyalty test."

A sharp pain lanced through my chest. Breathing hurt.

So... his elaborate engagement banquet with another woman was about "trust"?

Tears spilled before I could stop them, landing hot on the back of my hand.

The anger drained from Adrian's face when he saw me cry. He sighed, crouched beside me, and thumbed a tear off my cheek.

"Why are you crying? I'm just frustrated with the clinginess, that's all."

He took my hand, his voice softening:

"Once this R&D session wraps, I'll take you to look at places for us. Our future home."

He pulled out his phone and, right in front of me, sent a viewing appointment to a real estate agent. "I've saved enough for the down payment. Feel better now?"

After Adrian left, the apartment fell deathly quiet.

I walked into the bedroom and opened the backup tablet he kept for storing recipes.

The password was his mother's birthday. I opened the cloud-synced photo album. My hands started to shake.

Adrian had been lying.

I looked down at my arms—mottled with ugly burn scars.

A month ago, a fire broke out in the kitchen. I ran into the flames to save the recipe book Adrian had spent five years compiling. Both arms—badly burned.

A full week in the burn unit. The daily dressing changes made sleep impossible.

During that week, Adrian visited once. He said the fire had triggered an inspection—he had to stay at the restaurant to deal with investigators.

I looked at the latest photos synced to the tablet.

Timestamped to the exact days I was in the hospital, screaming through bandage changes.

No fire inspectors in these photos. Just Adrian and a woman with long, wavy hair—trying on diamond rings in a Paris boutique, signing a charter agreement at a cruise company.

The name on the cruise venue confirmation was unmistakable: Bridget Warren.

Bridget Warren.

I stared at the scars on my arms—scars that would never fade—and felt sick.

So while I was burning alive to protect his career, he was picking out engagement rings with another woman.

Ring Delivery: Eight Years of Lies on a Cruise — Chapter 1

You Might Also Like

No Recommendations