The Wedding They'll Never Forget - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
You are reading The Wedding They'll Never Forget, Chapter 8: Chapter 8. Read more chapters of The Wedding They'll Never Forget.
I crossed my arms, my gaze turning to ice. "I don't owe you a damn thing. Not after what you pulled. Get out before I have security drag you out."
The moment the word "security" left my lips, Paul's bravado cracked. A shadow of fear flickered across his face—no surprise, given how often he'd been hauled off properties by guards lately. The humiliation of being tossed out like trash, powerless and exposed, must've hit him all over again.
He took a shaky step back, searching my eyes for any trace of mercy. But I was done. I'd moved on, and it was time he got the message.
"Leave, Paul," I said, my voice sharp as shattered glass. "There's nothing here for you anymore."
His face twisted—anger, desperation, defeat—but he knew he'd lost. With one last, pitiful glance, he turned and trudged away, his steps heavy as lead.
My team hovered close, ready to intervene if he tried anything stupid, but I knew this wasn't the end. Paul would keep clawing at any opening, no matter how futile.
For the next month, he became my personal ghost, haunting my every move. Rain or shine, there he was—planted outside my office like some tragic statue, clutching those sad, wilted bouquets as if dead flowers could undo the wreckage he'd made of us.
At first, I rolled my eyes, assuming he'd tire himself out. But no—he only dug in deeper, his obsession thickening like a storm cloud.
It started with fleeting glimpses: him loitering on the sidewalk, shifting awkwardly, eyes glued to the building's entrance like a stray dog hoping for scraps. Then it became routine. I took the back exit like a fugitive, dodging him as if he were paparazzi hungry for a scandal. Exhausting didn't even begin to cover it.
But the real gut punch wasn't the inconvenience—it was the way his presence reopened old wounds. Every sighting was a fresh reminder of his betrayal, of how thoroughly he'd shattered me. And yet, there he stood, playing the martyr with his frostbitten fingers and drooping roses, expecting me to pity him.
Some might've called it romantic—"Oh, he's just lovesick!"—but I knew the truth. This was a last-ditch power play, a twisted attempt to guilt me into crawling back.
One afternoon, Andrew caught me mid-panic in the office kitchen, my nerves frayed to threads. "Ruby, this isn't sustainable," he said, voice low with concern. "You can't keep living like you're in witness protection. It's not safe—or sane."
I massaged my temples. "Tell me about it. But he's a damn cockroach. No matter how many times security boots him, he's back the next day with more pathetic flowers."
Andrew's jaw tightened. "From now on, I'm driving you. No more public transit, no more looking over your shoulder."
I agreed, reluctantly. Better than jumping at every shadow.
Then came the real violation: he stalked me home.
One freezing evening, I spotted him through the lobby glass—motionless across the street, snow dusting his shoulders as he stared up at my apartment window. The building's biometric locks kept him out, and the staff knew to bar him at the door, but the sight still iced my veins.
This wasn't love. It was a horror movie.
He wanted me to see him suffering, to crumble at the spectacle of his "devotion." But all I saw was a man who couldn't stand losing control. His little theater of pain? I wasn't buying tickets.
So I lived. Ignored him. Let him freeze his delusions out there while I rebuilt my life, brick by brick. But no matter how bright my future grew, his shadow stretched long across it—a stain I couldn't scrub away.
The moment the word "security" left my lips, Paul's bravado cracked. A shadow of fear flickered across his face—no surprise, given how often he'd been hauled off properties by guards lately. The humiliation of being tossed out like trash, powerless and exposed, must've hit him all over again.
He took a shaky step back, searching my eyes for any trace of mercy. But I was done. I'd moved on, and it was time he got the message.
"Leave, Paul," I said, my voice sharp as shattered glass. "There's nothing here for you anymore."
His face twisted—anger, desperation, defeat—but he knew he'd lost. With one last, pitiful glance, he turned and trudged away, his steps heavy as lead.
My team hovered close, ready to intervene if he tried anything stupid, but I knew this wasn't the end. Paul would keep clawing at any opening, no matter how futile.
For the next month, he became my personal ghost, haunting my every move. Rain or shine, there he was—planted outside my office like some tragic statue, clutching those sad, wilted bouquets as if dead flowers could undo the wreckage he'd made of us.
At first, I rolled my eyes, assuming he'd tire himself out. But no—he only dug in deeper, his obsession thickening like a storm cloud.
It started with fleeting glimpses: him loitering on the sidewalk, shifting awkwardly, eyes glued to the building's entrance like a stray dog hoping for scraps. Then it became routine. I took the back exit like a fugitive, dodging him as if he were paparazzi hungry for a scandal. Exhausting didn't even begin to cover it.
But the real gut punch wasn't the inconvenience—it was the way his presence reopened old wounds. Every sighting was a fresh reminder of his betrayal, of how thoroughly he'd shattered me. And yet, there he stood, playing the martyr with his frostbitten fingers and drooping roses, expecting me to pity him.
Some might've called it romantic—"Oh, he's just lovesick!"—but I knew the truth. This was a last-ditch power play, a twisted attempt to guilt me into crawling back.
One afternoon, Andrew caught me mid-panic in the office kitchen, my nerves frayed to threads. "Ruby, this isn't sustainable," he said, voice low with concern. "You can't keep living like you're in witness protection. It's not safe—or sane."
I massaged my temples. "Tell me about it. But he's a damn cockroach. No matter how many times security boots him, he's back the next day with more pathetic flowers."
Andrew's jaw tightened. "From now on, I'm driving you. No more public transit, no more looking over your shoulder."
I agreed, reluctantly. Better than jumping at every shadow.
Then came the real violation: he stalked me home.
One freezing evening, I spotted him through the lobby glass—motionless across the street, snow dusting his shoulders as he stared up at my apartment window. The building's biometric locks kept him out, and the staff knew to bar him at the door, but the sight still iced my veins.
This wasn't love. It was a horror movie.
He wanted me to see him suffering, to crumble at the spectacle of his "devotion." But all I saw was a man who couldn't stand losing control. His little theater of pain? I wasn't buying tickets.
So I lived. Ignored him. Let him freeze his delusions out there while I rebuilt my life, brick by brick. But no matter how bright my future grew, his shadow stretched long across it—a stain I couldn't scrub away.
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