My Boyfriend Faked His Death, So I Married Someone Else Chapter 08
I’d taken over that market stall two years ago. It was in a corner, but it kept me alive.
Now I knew Carter was alive. And in a few months, I’d marry Dylan.
So I sold the stall.
Ready for a new life.
After the paperwork, I felt light. On my way home, I passed an art museum. They were having an exhibition.
I went in.
Crowds inside. I wandered, looking at the high ceiling, sunlight through colored glass.
I envied the artist. Being able to express yourself in such a beautiful place.
Then my body froze.
In the center of the hall was an installation made of roses. A car crash scene.
A boy in a school uniform, covered in wounds, eyes closed. Red roses spread under him like blood.
The piece was called “Regret.”
I stared at the poster. The artist’s name.
Kendra Wells.
Her exhibition.
Nearby visitors whispered. “I heard she made it to remember a friend who died too young.”
“Oh my god, you don’t know about that? It was all over the news.”
“This awful, selfish girl made her boyfriend go buy her a cake in a storm. He got hit by a car right after the SATS. He was supposed to go to an Ivy League.”
“His whole future gone. So sad. No wonder she called it ‘Regret.'”
“And the artist? She had a crush on that boy for years.”
“Wow. That makes it even sadder.”
I felt like a rat in a spotlight.
I covered my face on instinct. Started walking out.
As I turned, I bumped into someone. Before I could say sorry, his words hit me like ice water.
“Whoa. You look really familiar.” He thought for a few seconds, then his eyes lit up. He pointed at me, loud. “You’re that murderer. The one who killed her boyfriend. Avery Reed, right?”
All eyes turned on me.
He glanced at “Regret” and sneered. “What, reliving old memories?”
Then he shoved me hard. I fell. “Don’t you feel any guilt? Any fear? After all these years?”
My face went white. My ears rang. I couldn’t process what he was saying.
Terror closed my throat. I couldn’t speak.
I tried to shake my head, but that just made him angrier.
“You sick bitch. That poor guy was cursed the day he met you.” He had that wannabe hero look on his face. Then he slapped me—hard.
My head snapped to the side. The ringing got worse. Tears poured. I fumbled for my phone to call 911.
It felt like the nightmare was happening all over again. I almost doubted if yesterday—eating with Dylan—had been real.
Was I really going to start a new life with him?
Or was that just a dream?
My hand slid into my pocket.
Ever since the news said Carter died, I’d set my phone to auto-dial 911 with five clicks of the power button.