23
Ambrose’s mind wandered to the future, imagining Hazel back in the country, working as his secretary.
It would be perfect. He would get to see her bright, confident smile every day.
A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he daydreamed about it.
But when he looked up again, Hazel was gone.
The strawberry cake remained, mostly untouched, a few bites taken by a colleague, the rest sitting there, abandoned.
A sharp emptiness stabbed at Ambrose’s chest.
It was as if, at that moment, a flood of forgotten memories crashed back into his mind.
He remembered that Hazel had never liked strawberry cake.
G
12:25 PM.
It was always his favorite, something she had learned to make with love, just for him.
She had spent so much time making little sacrifices for his sake.
Ambrose downed his coffee in one swift gulp, but it tasted of nothing.
The bitterness of the black brew couldn’t compare to the emptiness gnawing at his heart.
As Ambrose made his way back to his residence, a flood of thoughts suddenly consumed him, thoughts he had long pushed aside.
What did Hazel truly desire? What did she like? What made her heart flutter?
He spent the night turning over these questions, unable to escape the nagging feeling.
By morning, exhaustion finally claimed him, but sleep was far from peaceful.
In his dream, he saw Hazel as she once was, eighteen, full of life, with bright eyes and a flush of excitement on
her cheeks.
“My biggest wish is, of course, to marry you!” she had said, her words ringing in his ears.
Ambrose snapped awake, his heart racing.
Tears soaked his pillow, and he couldn’t stop the quiet sobs that wracked his body.
All the forgotten memories flooded back, clearer than ever.
With renewed purpose, he sprang out of bed and immediately booked the earliest flight home.
Ambrose’s mother was less than thrilled when she learned of his return.
She demanded he come to the Wright family home at once.
Ever since Hazel had fled the wedding, the Wright family had become the subject of ridicule.
And now, instead of taking charge, Ambrose was chasing Hazel across the globe.
Claudia couldn’t fathom what made Hazel so special.
Women who dreamt of becoming Mrs. Wright were everywhere, yet Ambrose couldn’t seem to forget this one
woman.
Determined, she had made up her mind: when Ambrose returned to the family, she would waste no time setting up a blind date for him.
This time, she would choose a poised and graceful woman as his bride.
But when Ambrose finally returned, he didn’t head to the Wright family home or the company.
No, the first place he went was the Belmont Villa.
As he stepped through the door, the sight of the neat, pristine living room sparked an unexpected fury within
him.
“Who told you to clean up?” he demanded, his voice sharp.
Assistant William, speaking with caution, answered, “It was the old madam’s orders. She thought the house looked unkempt, said it didn’t look proper.”
Ambrose’s fists clenched as a surge of anger coursed through him. Without a second thought, he began searching frantically for the things Hazel had left behind.
Fortunately, William, aware of how important those things were, had kept them safe–he hadn’t dared dispose of anything that belonged to Hazel.
Everything had been carefully sorted and preserved.
Ambrose rummaged through each item, his fingers grazing over them as though they were fragile fragments of the past
It became painfully clear why Hazel had held onto these things for so long.
12:25 PM c
Running Away framk
They weren’t just objects; they were memories intertwined with his own.
They were a testament to the life they had shared.
But Hazel had left them all behind.
She had walked away, taking with her all the sadness, the regrets, and the shattered pieces of their love
Ambrose’s eyes landed on the wedding ring with a single band remaining, and a slow, steady stream of tears began to fall.
*I was wrong… I was so wrong… no wonder she never forgave me,” he whispered to himself.
He stumbled back a few steps, his hand brushing against a trash can, knocking it over with a soft clatter.
