01

At my betrothal celebration, Denver's companions inquired about his most exhilarating experience. Some speculated it was his proposal to me, involving ten thousand roses on Mount Everest. Others playfully suggested it might have been our first intimate night together.

Feeling uncomfortable with their jesting and concerned about Denver's potential overindulgence, I quietly left to purchase some hangover remedies for him.

I hadn't gone far when I caught his voice, measured and clear, cutting through the merriment.

"You're all mistaken. It's none of those things. The most thrilling thing I've ever done was transforming Brielle to resemble Sabrina."

1

The crisp evening air felt even chillier as I turned back for my jacket. His statement stopped me in my tracks.

The lively discussion in the private room abruptly ceased. After what seemed an eternity, someone finally broke the silence with an uneasy chuckle.

"Wow, that's... unexpected."

"Seems Denver hasn't moved on from Sabrina. She's been absent for years. I can barely recall her appearance now. But he does. I suppose that shows the depth of his feelings for her."

"Speaking of Sabrina, I heard she's returning from Paris tomorrow. What will you tell Brielle? How will you explain this to your fiancée?"

Denver, his speech slurred, replied, "She is not my fiancée."

Those five words crushed any remaining hope I had. My eyes welled up, on the verge of spilling over. Panicked, I rushed to the restroom, desperate to conceal my breakdown. As I stumbled, memories of the past six years replayed mercilessly in my mind.

Denver and I had been introduced by a mutual friend on a blind date. He was a renowned cosmetic surgeon, famous nationwide. From our first meeting, his gaze never wavered from me. His eyes sparkled with intensity, fixed on mine as if I were the only person in existence.

Subsequently, he pursued me relentlessly—lavishing me with flowers, designer gifts, and seemingly everything I could desire. Even the stars appeared within reach when he promised them to me.

My friends and colleagues were envious, claiming I'd found a one-in-a-million partner.

And I? I fell deeply in love with him.

The moment I realized I had completely fallen was after a near-fatal incident.

We were strolling through the city, hand in hand, when suddenly a car veered out of control towards us. Without hesitation, Denver shielded me with his body. He suffered three broken ribs, while I escaped with minor facial scratches.

For weeks, he was consumed by guilt, constantly blaming himself. Then, he offered to repair the scars on my face, using the opportunity to declare his love.

"I'm so sorry, Brielle. I failed to protect you adequately. Let me make amends. I'll give you an even more beautiful face and a better life. Will you stay with me and allow me to atone for my shortcomings?"

At the time, blinded by love, I was profoundly touched.

It never occurred to me that he was using that moment to mold me into the image of his first love. Now, gazing at my reflection, tears blurred my vision.

No wonder he always caressed my face so tenderly during our intimate moments. I had mistaken it for deep, passionate love. But I was wrong. It wasn't me he cherished. It was his first love—Sabrina Dyer.

I'm grateful I had refused the bone-sculpting surgery due to my fear of pain and only agreed to minor adjustments. And thankful I had only accepted Denver's proposal and hadn't yet married him. It wasn't too late. Wiping away my tears, I took out my phone and made a call.

"Chief, I'd like to apply for the frontline journalist position in South Africa."

"That's excellent! Such an assignment would greatly benefit your career. However, you'd need to sign a confidentiality agreement and cut off all outside contact. You're about to get married—will your fiancé agree to this?"

Just as I was about to respond, my phone chimed with a new message.