Henry grew irritated. “Why do you always put on that cold face? If it bothers you that much, then fine, I won’t go.”
I smiled lightly, but did not respond.
Henry watched my expression, realizing I truly wasn’t angry, before finally stepping out the door.
When he reached the door, he hesitated, then turned back.
“Where are you going with all that luggage?” he asked.
“Valmont,” I answered plainly.
A flash of realization crossed Henry’s face, and his whole body seemed to relax.
“Next week,” he said, “I’ll clear my schedule and take you to Valmont for our honeymoon.”
On the day I had decided to leave, Henry had finally remembered the promises we once made.
Unfortunately, it was already too late.
While waiting at the airport, I happened to see a post from Tamara that she had purposely tagged me in.
In the video, she lay on a hospital bed, her hair covered in soapy foam, while a pair of masculine hands washed her hair.
It captured Henry’s voice.
“Don’t move,” he said affectionately.
Tamara had adorned her caption with several heart emojis:
[My hand’s injured and I can’t get it wet, so Mr. Shepherd insisted on washing my hair for me.
[It’s so oily, and I’m so embarrassed… but he doesn’t mind at all! He even said he’ll keep taking care of me like this from now on.]
Right on cue, Henry’s message arrived:
[Something’s come up next week. Cancel the ticket for now. I’ll find time to go with you next month.]
What he didn’t know was that I had never booked a ticket for him in the first place.
Just before takeoff, I had my lawyer send him the divorce papers—then I switched on airplane mode.
