The day the renovations on our future home were finally finished, I walked into the master bedroom and realized the magnolia painting on the wall was gone. In its place hung a painting of sunflowers. When I asked Fion about it, he shrugged it off. “Felicity liked this one better. She had them swap it out.” “It’s not like you care about this kind of stuff anyway.” But that magnolia painting had been painted for me by my mother, right before she died. I stared at the empty space on the wall, silent for a long moment. Fion, assuming I was on the verge of tears, sighed with irritation. “Don’t make a federal case out of a painting, Monica.” “Felicity was just trying to help with the design. She has better taste than you do, honestly.” Later, I would find out it wasn’t just the painting. The walk-in closet shelves had been adjusted to match Felicity’s height. The kitchen cabinets were painted in the creamy off-white she preferred. Even the bedside reading lamps had been swapped out because she mentioned the original ones were “too bright to fall asleep to.” I had thought this was going to be our home. But it turned out I was just the guest who was being allowed to move in. As I slipped the keys into my bag, Fion’s brow furrowed. “What are you trying to pull now?” I shook my head. Outside, the magnolias in the yard were in full bloom. But I suddenly remembered that when petals fall, they do so in complete silence. Just like the way I was letting him go. …… As I zipped my purse, Fion’s hand shot out, his fingers clamping around my wrist. His fingertips were cold against my skin, but his voice carried that familiar, patronizing warmth he used when coaxing a difficult child. “Monica, we’re in the home stretch of the remodel. If you start throwing a fit now, the contractors will have to redo everything. It’s just not worth it.” I looked up at the vibrant, demanding sunflowers. “I’m not asking anyone to redo anything.” Fion relaxed his grip slightly, apparently pleased with my compliance. “Good. Felicity actually stopped by earlier today to check on things. She said having this piece here would make the bedroom feel brighter.” I offered a quiet, empty smile. “How thoughtful of her.” “Well, she understands these things,” Fion said, already distracted, tapping rapidly on his phone screen. “Unlike you, always holding onto the past.” The past. My mother’s last painting had become nothing more than a relic he could throw away without a second thought. The interior designer standing nearby looked deeply uncomfortable. Clutching his tablet, he asked in a quiet voice, “Mr. Copeland, should we still order the champagne-colored bedding Miss Felicity selected?” Fion didn’t look up from his screen. “Yeah. She’s a light sleeper. Don’t go with anything too heavy.” The designer blinked, casting a quick, uneasy glance my way. Fion caught himself, a slight crease forming between his brows, though his face quickly smoothed over. “I just mean she tested the lighting for us,” he added, his voice defensive. “Her feedback was practical. Don’t overthink it.” I nodded. “I won’t.” He seemed slightly thrown by my lack of reaction, his eyes searching my face. “You’re being weird today.” Instead of answering, I walked past him into the dressing room. The built-in shelves had been lowered. The hanging rods had been adjusted to perfectly fit the floor-length maxi dresses Felicity always wore. I had told him months ago that I had a lot of heavy winter coats and needed at least one tall cabinet. Fion had scoffed, saying our house wasn’t a storage unit and that I shouldn’t make our master bedroom look like a rental. Yet, with a single passing comment from Felicity about her dresses, the closet had been reshaped in her image. I pulled open one of the jewelry drawers. Resting inside was a small, cream-colored ceramic deer. It wasn’t mine. Fion stepped in behind me. Seeing the figurine, his expression tightened for a fraction of a second before he casually picked it up and set it aside. “Felicity must have left that here. I’ll have her pick it up.” I asked, “How often has she been here?” “It’s a remodel, Monica. Of course she’s been here,” Fion’s tone sharpened. “You’ve been busy with work. I asked her to keep an eye on things to save you the trouble.” “Does she have a key?” Fion slipped his phone into his pocket and let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Monica, do you always have to make everything sound so ugly? She’s helping us, not breaking in.” I looked him in the eye. “I only asked if she had a key.” Right then, the front door clicked open. Felicity walked in carrying a bakery box, moving through the space with the effortless familiarity of someone returning to her own kitchen. “Fion, I grabbed those chestnut tarts you love. And I brought a little something for Monica, too.” She caught sight of me, her bright smile never wavering. “Oh, am I interrupting?” Fion naturally took the bakery bag from her hand. “Not at all. Monica was just saying how much she appreciates your help.” Felicity’s eyes crinkled. “Oh, Monica, don’t mention it! A future home is such a big deal. I just wanted to make sure everything was perfect for you guys.” I looked down at her feet. She was wearing a pair of soft-soled house slippers. There was only one new pair of slippers in the entryway shoe rack—pale yellow, a size smaller than mine. Fion followed my gaze. A flash of irritation crossed his face. “They’re just slippers, Monica. She’s over here a lot, so we kept a pair here to save her the hassle of changing every time.” Felicity bit her lower lip delicately. “Maybe I should take them home. I don’t want Monica to feel uncomfortable.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Fion intervened, making the decision for her. “She’s not that petty.” I reached into my purse, pulled out my set of house keys, and set them quietly on the console table by the door. “You should keep these here, then.” Fion stared at the brass keys, his face darkening. “What is that supposed to mean?” “You two need them more than I do,” I said. He stared at me, trying to gauge if I was genuinely angry or if this was just a ploy to make him beg. Felicity spoke up first. “Monica, please don’t misunderstand. Fion and I grew up together. We have so many old habits that are hard to break, but we really are just friends.” Fion chimed in instantly. “You see? Don’t make her feel so uncomfortable that she’s afraid to even help us.” I picked up my purse. “Okay.” Fion’s hand clamped onto my wrist again, harder this time. “I’ll have the driver take you home. I have a dinner meeting tonight, so do me a favor and don’t call my mother to complain about this nonsense.” I looked up at him. “What are you afraid I’ll tell her?” “I’m afraid you’ll exaggerate,” he muttered, lowering his voice. “Our wedding is in three months. Let’s not make things awkward for both of our families.” Three months. We had been engaged for two years. The day we finally set the date, I had circled it on my calendar three times in bright red ink. And now, every corner of the house we were supposed to build our life in carried Felicity’s signature. As the designer gathered his things to leave, he brushed past me. His tablet screen lit up. Across the top of the open project file, a line of bold text caught my eye: “Project: Felicity’s Residence Style Replica.” When I got into the elevator, those words were still burned into my mind. Fion ran out after me just as the doors were sliding shut. He jammed his hand between them, forcing them open. He was practically vibrating with suppressed anger. “Monica, are you really throwing a tantrum over a line of text on a draft?” I stared at his gold cufflinks. “So you saw it?” “So what if I did?” He stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. “Felicity’s old apartment had incredible aesthetics. It’s completely normal for a designer to use it as a reference.” “Our future home,” I said softly, “is a replica of her old apartment?” Fion rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Do you have to be this exhausting? I bought the place, and I paid for the remodel. Is it such a crime that I want to live in a style that’s actually comfortable?” My pale reflection stared back at me from the polished metal doors. “No,” I whispered. “It isn’t.” If anything, my quietness only annoyed him more. “Monica, when you get like this—this silent, stubborn act—it’s worse than an actual fight.” The elevator doors chimed open at the lobby. Felicity’s voice trailed after us as she hurried to catch up. “Fion, don’t be hard on her. This is all my fault.” She was holding the ceramic deer, offering it to me like a peace offering. “Here, take this. Consider it an apology. I used to love this piece, and Fion said it would look beautiful by the master bedroom window.” Fion’s eyes softened as he looked at the figurine. And suddenly, a memory flashed through my mind. On my birthday three years ago, Fion had given me a delicate magnolia brooch. “It reminded me of you,” he had told me back then. “Quiet, elegant, completely unpretentious.” But after Felicity returned from abroad, that brooch mysteriously vanished, never to be seen again. “If you love it so much, you should keep it,” I said, refusing to reach for it. Felicity’s hand froze mid-air. Fion snatched the deer from her, his voice turning cold. “She’s trying to be nice, Monica. Take it. Stop making a scene.” “I don’t want someone else’s hand-me-downs,” I said. Felicity flinched, all the color draining from her face. Fion’s entire demeanor shifted. “Monica. Apologize. Now.” Workers were moving in and out of the lobby, and the designer was only a few feet away. A few curious glances drifted toward us. “For what?” I asked. “For being cruel.” Fion gripped my shoulder. It wasn’t painful, but it was firm enough to lock me in place. “Felicity went out of her way to help you, and you’re treating her with nothing but passive-aggressive spite.” Felicity lowered her head. “It’s fine, Fion. I don’t want to make things harder for Monica.” But Fion didn’t let go. “I’ve spoiled her, and now she doesn’t even have basic manners.” I looked down at the little ceramic deer. One of its ears was chipped, repaired so carefully that only a faint seam in the glaze remained. Felicity let out a soft, self-deprecating sigh. “To be honest, Fion actually gave this to me years ago. I just thought it would fit nicely in your new home.” Fion frowned. “Felicity.” She quickly bit her lip, looking sheepish. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” A cold laugh bubbled up in my chest. So she wasn’t trying to give me her old junk. She was bringing Fion’s old gifts to her, to place them in the bedroom I was supposed to share with him. As if eager to shut down any further questions, Fion shoved the ceramic deer into my hands. “Just take it. It’s a piece of clay, Monica. Drop it.” The sharp ceramic edge dug into my palm. My hands were numb, and my grip slipped. The figurine tumbled to the polished concrete floor, shattering into two clean halves. Felicity gasped. Fion’s face went entirely dark. “Monica!” I knelt down to gather the broken pieces. A sharp edge sliced into my index finger, and a bead of dark red blood welled up. Fion saw it. His hand twitched as if to reach for me, but instead, he turned to shield Felicity. “Don’t look at it. Be careful not to step on the shards.” Felicity hid behind his shoulder. “Monica, I know you don’t like me. But you didn’t have to do that.” I held the sharp fragments in my palm. “How much was it? I’ll write you a check.” Fion stared down at my bleeding hand, his voice dropping an octave. “This isn’t about money.” “Then what is it about?” I asked. He didn’t answer. The designer stepped forward cautiously, offering a pocket pack of tissues. “Miss Monica, maybe you should wrap that up first.” Fion took the tissues, but before he could hand them to me, his phone buzzed in his palm. He checked the screen and answered immediately. “Yes, Aunt Sharon? No, Felicity is right here with me. Don’t worry.” Felicity leaned closer to listen, her expression instantly softening. The voice on the other end was loud enough to carry through the quiet lobby. “Fion, dear! How is the new house coming along? Now that I’m back in town, I simply must be the first one to see it!” I squeezed the broken ceramic pieces in my fist, looking up at Fion. He hesitated for a single second. Then, he spoke smoothly: “It’s almost ready. I’ll bring her over soon.” So, it was “their” new house. I didn’t ask Fion who Aunt Sharon was. And he didn’t offer to explain. The next afternoon, Fion’s mother, Helena, invited me to a bridal boutique for a dress fitting. When I arrived, Felicity was already there, lounging on the velvet sofa with a delicate white lace bridal shawl draped over her shoulders. Helena smiled warmly, waving me over. “Monica, darling, come in! Felicity has such an eye for these things—she’s already pulled a few gorgeous options for you.” I looked at the rack of gowns. Every single one of them had an empire waist, a short train, and exceptionally narrow shoulder lines. “These aren’t really my style,” I said. Helena’s smile faltered. “Well, dear, when it comes to weddings, it’s always best to listen to those with experience. Felicity has helped plan several high-profile weddings. She knows what works.” Felicity stood up, lifting a simple, sleek gown from the rack. “This one is stunning. Fion would love you in this.” I looked at her. “It’s my wedding. Why should I dress solely for his preferences?” Helena’s teacup paused halfway to her lips. “Monica, marriage is about compromise. Fion is under a lot of pressure at work. The least you can do is try to accommodate him.” Felicity added softly, “Fion has always preferred a very clean, understated aesthetic. If you wear something too dramatic, he’ll probably find it distracting.” The consultant carried the dresses into the fitting room, but I remained standing where I was. Helena finally sighed, her patience wearing thin. “Honestly, Monica, I don’t know why you’ve become so difficult lately. First it was the painting, then the decor, and now the dress. Must you make an issue out of everything?” I looked at her. “Did you know they took down my mother’s painting?” Helena paused. “Felicity mentioned it. She said the original piece was a bit dated. It didn’t really fit the mood of a modern home.” I nodded slowly. “My mother painted that.” The air in the boutique turned icy. Felicity’s eyes immediately welled with tears. “Monica, oh my god, I had no idea. If I had known, I swear I would have never suggested moving it.” Helena’s voice softened slightly, though she remained defensive. “Well, that was obviously a misunderstanding. But Fion was only trying to make the house look its best. You can’t hold a simple mistake against him forever.” Suddenly, a wave of profound exhaustion washed over me. They all knew I was being hurt. They just cared more about keeping Felicity from feeling uncomfortable. When Fion pushed open the boutique door a few minutes later, Helena looked at him like he was a savior. “Fion, thank goodness. Monica is refusing to even try on the dresses Felicity picked out.” Fion glanced briefly at the rack. “Felicity chose these?” Felicity nodded. “I was just trying to help.” “Then pick one of these,” Fion said, walking over to me. He reached out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind my shoulder. “Monica, let’s not keep everyone waiting.” I looked up into his eyes. “What if I don’t want to wear any of them?” His hand froze. His voice was low, laced with a quiet warning. “The wedding isn’t just about you.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. “The house isn’t mine. The dress isn’t mine. Whose wedding is this, Fion?” Fion’s eyes narrowed. “There are people watching. Stop acting out.” Felicity murmured, “Monica, please don’t be upset. Fion just wants the day to go smoothly.” Without another word, I turned and walked into the fitting room. As the consultant zipped me up, my phone buzzed in my bag. It was a text from the designer. “Miss Monica, I wanted to follow up on the magnolia painting you asked about. I managed to track it down.” “Mr. Copeland’s assistant said we didn’t need to keep the original frame because Miss Felicity didn’t like how weathered it looked. They had it sent to a storage facility.” Below the message was an attached photo. In the dusty corner of a commercial warehouse, my mother’s magnolia painting was propped carelessly against a concrete wall. The canvas was badly creased along the top, and the edges were coated in gray dust. I stared at the image, a cold, dead weight settling deep in my chest. The consultant asked gently, “Is the bodice too tight, Miss Monica?” “A little,” I whispered. When I stepped out, Fion’s eyes swept over me. He looked satisfied, his shoulders relaxing. “That one looks fine.” Beside him, Felicity went completely still, her fingers tightening around her lace shawl. Helena smiled wistfully. “You know, if Felicity had gotten her wedding years ago, I imagine she would have looked exactly like this.” Fion’s expression shifted instantly. “Mom.” Helena caught her mistake, quickly hiding behind her teacup. “Oh, just a silly observation.” I looked at myself in the triple-mirror. I stood there, wearing a dress handpicked by Felicity, standing next to Fion like a cheap cutout pasted over an old photograph. As I turned, I noticed a leather binder peeking out from a gap in the fitting room door. I bent down to pick it up. On the cover, a printed label read: “Wedding Program Draft.” “Bride’s Aesthetic Preferences: Felicity.” I set the folder down, my fingers lingering on the cool leather for a beat. Fion walked over. “What are you looking at?” I looked up at him. “Why does the wedding program reference Felicity?” He glanced at the binder, his face remaining entirely expressionless. “The planning agency got lazy. They reused a template from a package she worked on before. I’ll have them fix it.” Felicity chimed in immediately, her voice frantic. “I sent them some inspiration files earlier to help out. They must have gotten confused. Monica, please don’t be mad.” I looked at Fion. “Is it just a confusion?” The last thread of his patience snapped. “What else would it be, Monica? Are you really at the point where seeing her name makes you think the whole world is plotting against you?” I didn’t ask another question. That afternoon, I drove out to the warehouse alone. It took the manager nearly an hour to find the painting. “Mr. Copeland’s assistant said they didn’t want it anymore,” he apologized as he handed it over. “We didn’t want to throw it away, so we just kept it back here.” The canvas had a deep crease running right through the stems, and the area near my mother’s signature was slightly scuffed. I sat in my car, using a soft cloth to gently wipe away the dust. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Fion. “Aunt Sharon is coming over to the house for dinner tonight. Be there. And don’t ruin the mood.” I replied with a single word: “Okay.” The dinner was set up in the newly finished house. When I arrived, the dining table had already been laid out directly beneath the giant sunflower painting. Felicity was clinging to an elderly woman’s arm, laughing sweetly. Aunt Sharon looked at Fion, her eyes shining with pride. “Fion, sweetheart, this place is magnificent. It feels just as warm and cozy as Felicity’s old apartment.” Fion didn’t correct her. I paused in the entryway, my hands freezing as I took off my coat. Felicity noticed me first, her laughter dying down to a polite, strained smile. “Oh, Monica. You’re here.” Aunt Sharon blinked. “And who is this?” Fion hesitated before speaking. “Aunt Sharon, this is Monica.” He didn’t say “my fiancée.” Aunt Sharon’s eyes darted between the three of us. She quickly recovered her bright smile. “Ah, a friend! Come in, dear, sit down.” Fion leaned in close, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “She’s got a weak heart, Monica. She can’t handle stress. Don’t say anything stupid.” I looked at him. “What qualifies as stupid?” “Don’t mention the wedding,” he muttered. “Don’t mention our relationship. I’ll explain everything to you after she leaves.” I let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Fion, you invited me here to act like a stranger in my own home?” “It’s just one dinner,” he hissed. Felicity stepped over, her eyes full of performative guilt. “Monica, I’m so sorry. Aunt Sharon practically raised Fion and me. She’s always assumed we would end up together, and we’re just terrified the truth might hurt her.” “So I’m the one who has to play along to spare her feelings?” I asked. Fion nodded immediately, relieved. “I knew you’d understand.” At the table, Aunt Sharon kept piling food onto Felicity’s plate. “Felicity’s loved this dish since she was a little girl. You remember that, don’t you, Fion?” Fion expertly deboned a piece of fish and placed it in Felicity’s bowl. “Of course I do.” Aunt Sharon beamed, clapping her hands. “You always did know how to take care of her. Seeing you two together like this makes my heart so happy.” Felicity blushed, casting a fleeting, nervous glance at me. “Aunt Sharon, please.” Fion took a sip of water, offering no correction. I sat at the very edge of the table. The dim yellow light of the bedside lamp they’d moved to the living room cast a dreary shadow over the food. Suddenly, Aunt Sharon turned to me. “So, dear, do you have a boyfriend?” The table fell dead silent. Fion looked up, his eyes practically screaming a warning at me. I set my fork down quietly. “I used to.” Fion’s jaw tightened. Aunt Sharon, oblivious to the tension, smiled. “And now?” I looked directly at Fion. “Not for much longer.”
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