In our third year together, Harlan Sawyer suddenly proposed to me.

At the movie theater, as the film ended, Harlan grabbed my hand to stop me from leaving.


The screen suddenly lit up with a montage of our relationship—every precious moment we'd shared.

With tender eyes, he pulled a bouquet from behind his back. "Rachel, will you marry me?"

A delicate diamond ring glittered before my eyes.


Strangers gathered around us, whooping and cheering.

"Say yes! Say yes!"


I exhaled slowly.

With only the proposal left to complete my mission, I should be happy.

I forced a smile and extended my trembling hand.

"Yes, I will."

The theater erupted with applause and cheers.

Right in the middle of our moment, Harlan's phone rang.

He glanced at the caller ID, then shoved the flowers into my hands with a quick apologetic look.

A moment later: "Sorry, Rachel. Vanessa was in a car accident. I need to check on her. Go home and wait for me, okay?"

On the screen played images of him surprising me with cake and handmade gifts.

I clutched his proposal bouquet in my left hand while my right hand balled into a fist at my side.

How fucking ridiculous.

"Sure. Go ahead."

Before everyone's eyes, he bolted out without hesitation, never once considering how humiliated I felt standing there alone.

My heart plummeted.

I waved dismissively at the onlookers. "Show's over, folks."

When I glimpsed Vanessa's text earlier, I should have known this would happen.

In Harlan's heart, I would always be second to Vanessa.