Trash Fiancé, Meet My Revenge - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
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I returned to my childhood home - the house where Mom and I used to live together.
Every corner held ghosts of her presence.
That night I cried until my throat burned and drank until the room spun.
During those five years with Damien, his family had taken care of Mom. But no amount of care could stop the leukemia from stealing her anyway.
Nothing could have stopped her from leaving me.
I don't blame anyone - if anything, I should be grateful to the Gu family.
But it was Damien who made sure Mom's last moments were filled with regret.
She deserved to go in peace.
That... I'll never forgive.
Next morning, pounding on the door jolted me awake.
I staggered up, immediately kicking an empty wine bottle that sent me crashing into the coffee table. My shin screamed in protest.
"Who—"
The peephole showed me the last person I wanted to see.
"Claire? It is you!" His voice carried unmistakable relief.
I opened the door, avoiding his gaze.
"Mr. Sinclair... I'm so sorry."
My boss, Wyatt, stood on my doorstep.
It'd been over a week since Mom's accident. He'd offered extended leave, but I refused. I needed to wrap things up here - then leave this city forever.
I gestured him inside awkwardly.
The living room looked worse in daylight - a minefield of empty bottles between piles of unwashed laundry.
"Let me clean this up. Check your leg first." He plucked a bottle from my hand.
I hobbled toward the sofa - only to trip again.
At that moment, I wouldn't have minded disappearing forever.
Then strong hands caught me.
"Mind if I carry you?" His voice rumbled behind me.
Before I could protest, he scooped me up like a child and deposited me safely on the couch.
Studying his dead-serious expression, it hit me - maybe this "annoying" boss of mine wasn't so bad after all?
"How'd you know about my leg?"
He gave me a look. "That crash sounded like you took out a bowling alley."
Heat flooded my cheeks. Note to self: never ask obvious questions hungover.
Wyatt worked quietly, clearing debris. When he yanked open the curtains, sunlight stabbed my eyes.
"Mr. Sinclair... how did you find me?" I perched stiffly on the sofa.
He adjusted his glasses, producing a form from his briefcase.
"To be transparent - your job application lists this address."
His gaze pinned me.
"When you missed two days without calling, and HR couldn't reach you..."
A beat.
"I came to check."
Every word said "professional obligation." But his actions screamed something else entirely.
Every corner held ghosts of her presence.
That night I cried until my throat burned and drank until the room spun.
During those five years with Damien, his family had taken care of Mom. But no amount of care could stop the leukemia from stealing her anyway.
Nothing could have stopped her from leaving me.
I don't blame anyone - if anything, I should be grateful to the Gu family.
But it was Damien who made sure Mom's last moments were filled with regret.
She deserved to go in peace.
That... I'll never forgive.
Next morning, pounding on the door jolted me awake.
I staggered up, immediately kicking an empty wine bottle that sent me crashing into the coffee table. My shin screamed in protest.
"Who—"
The peephole showed me the last person I wanted to see.
"Claire? It is you!" His voice carried unmistakable relief.
I opened the door, avoiding his gaze.
"Mr. Sinclair... I'm so sorry."
My boss, Wyatt, stood on my doorstep.
It'd been over a week since Mom's accident. He'd offered extended leave, but I refused. I needed to wrap things up here - then leave this city forever.
I gestured him inside awkwardly.
The living room looked worse in daylight - a minefield of empty bottles between piles of unwashed laundry.
"Let me clean this up. Check your leg first." He plucked a bottle from my hand.
I hobbled toward the sofa - only to trip again.
At that moment, I wouldn't have minded disappearing forever.
Then strong hands caught me.
"Mind if I carry you?" His voice rumbled behind me.
Before I could protest, he scooped me up like a child and deposited me safely on the couch.
Studying his dead-serious expression, it hit me - maybe this "annoying" boss of mine wasn't so bad after all?
"How'd you know about my leg?"
He gave me a look. "That crash sounded like you took out a bowling alley."
Heat flooded my cheeks. Note to self: never ask obvious questions hungover.
Wyatt worked quietly, clearing debris. When he yanked open the curtains, sunlight stabbed my eyes.
"Mr. Sinclair... how did you find me?" I perched stiffly on the sofa.
He adjusted his glasses, producing a form from his briefcase.
"To be transparent - your job application lists this address."
His gaze pinned me.
"When you missed two days without calling, and HR couldn't reach you..."
A beat.
"I came to check."
Every word said "professional obligation." But his actions screamed something else entirely.
End of Trash Fiancé, Meet My Revenge Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to Trash Fiancé, Meet My Revenge book page.