The Wedding He Stole for Her Birthday - Chapter 11: Chapter 11

I'd always told myself Madeline was just too clever—that she and Alexander's friends had played their parts too perfectly. That's why he'd been fooled. God knows I'd made every excuse in the book for him.
But here he stood now, dismissing everything as trivial, even having the audacity to say he'd felt happiness through it all.
White-hot rage shot through me. My palm connected with his cheek before I could think.
"Alexander," I spat, "do you actually believe an apology and that pathetic bowed head of yours will make me forget? Dream on! What about my pain? Was I just supposed to swallow it like bitter medicine?"
I stepped closer, my voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Mark my words—no amount of 'sorrys' will ever fix this. You are unforgivable."
Without another glance, I spun on my heel and walked out, leaving him standing there like a ghost.
Tristan waited outside, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth, his entire body radiating tension. But the moment our eyes met, his expression melted into that familiar warmth. He'd seen everything—yet asked no questions. Just reached for my hand and said, "Let's go home."
The next weeks blurred into a frenzy of English cramming and interview prep. Alexander stayed away, but Brookhaven's news cycle couldn't stop talking about Adams Corporation's brutal takedown of Willowcreek Enterprises.
The city held its breath as company after company fell under Alexander's wrath. With each collapse came a public apology—always extracted like a rotten tooth. Whispers spread like wildfire: he was waging war for a woman's honor.
The irony? He kept me completely out of the spotlight. Instead, cameras caught Madeline hovering at his elbow, letting the world assume she was his muse. Only when the Landers family crumbled—when a hollow-eyed Madeline faced reporters to confess everything—did the truth surface.
Every target had been someone who'd hurt me.
And yet—what was the point? The deepest wounds? Those had always come from Alexander himself.
I stopped watching the news.
Then the calls started. Unknown numbers flooding my phone at all hours. By accident, I answered one—only to hear one of his old friends sobbing, begging me to call off Alexander's "scorched-earth campaign" before he drove them all out of Brookhaven.
Their pleas left me cold. I blocked every number.
The morning of my flight, Tristan laced his fingers through mine like it was the most natural thing in the world—and lately, it had started to feel that way.
Then the airport erupted.
Alexander came barreling through the crowd like a man possessed, eyes bloodshot, two familiar peace amulets clutched in his shaking hands. My mother's last pilgrimage relics.
A fresh bruise swelled on his forehead. He stumbled toward us, gait unsteady. Tristan shifted instantly, becoming a human shield between us.
Alexander ignored him, thrusting the amulets at me. "Scarlett, I got them back," he rasped. "Don't go. Please. You're only with him to punish me." His voice cracked. "Ten years... you can't just stop loving me."
Then—
He dropped to his knees. Actually knelt, clutching my legs exactly as I'd once begged him not to postpone our wedding.
Tristan went rigid beside me, his usual gentleness replaced by something dangerous. I pressed a steadying hand between his shoulder blades.
Then I did what would become airport legend.