Love's Turnabout

Only three days remain until the wedding between Kevin Gabriel and me. I stood in the city's most upscale bridal boutique, my fingertips brushing over the hand-embroidered pearls on the ivory wedding gown, each one smooth and round—like the decade of love I have carefully nurtured. The gown's hem spread out over the carpet, trailing a long, graceful curve. The sales assistant smiled warmly and said, "Ms. Shawn, Mr. Gabriel truly loves you. This is a limited edition this year; many prominent socialites are eager for it." A faint smile lifted the corners of my mouth, but inside, a subtle, almost imperceptible emptiness stirred. Ten years—from the tender awkwardness of high school to walking side by side in university, then standing by each other after graduation—we have shared the most precious moments of our lives. In our senior year, when I had a high fever, Kevin braved the rain to run across three streets to buy brown sugar and ginger tea. Soaked through, he still held the cup close to his chest: "Daisy, drink this and you'll feel better. I'll always be here with you." At university graduation, he held a rough business plan, his eyes resolute: "Give me a few more years, and I will proudly marry you home." To support him, I persuaded my father to provide the initial funding and gave up studying abroad, choosing instead to stay by his side to manage logistics and finances. Back then, we lived in a tiny fifty-square-meter rental, ate the cheapest boxed meals, stayed up late revising plans—and yet, never once felt it was hard. Because we believed wholeheartedly that our promise to marry would someday come true. Three months ago, Kevin Gabriel proposed to me at the café where we had worked part-time. His pigeon egg diamond ring caught the glint of his tears as he said, "Ten years have passed; let me love you for a lifetime." I nodded through tears, believing that happiness had finally come as it should. But in the past month, Kevin has grown increasingly busy. He keeps saying the project is urgent, the client difficult. When he comes home late at night, there's a strange scent of perfume on him—he just says it's from the client. I choose to believe him, just as I have every time over the past ten years. Kevin Gabriel sent me a voice message, his tone gentle as always: "There's an urgent project to discuss in the Southern region. I’ll fly there overnight. I'll definitely be back before the wedding, and I'll take you to watch the sunrise on Honeymoon Island." I suppressed the unease in my heart and reminded him to stay safe. After hanging up, my close friend Viola Lincoln sent me a photo from a concert: "Daisy, the pink rabbit dancers at Ruby Wade's concert are so cute!" Ruby Wade is a wildly popular singer; Kevin once said he didn't like that kind of celebrity like Ruby. The moment I opened the picture, my blood ran cold. The doll's broad shoulders, height, even the slight leftward tilt in its walk—all were exactly like Kevin Gabriel's. What was even more glaring was the pair of limited-edition sneakers I had accompanied him to buy last week, the fluorescent stripes peeking out from under the pant leg. A chill swept through my body, and my fingers trembling as they gripped the phone. It can't be—Kevin is in the Southern region negotiating a project. How could he possibly be here? But the figure was too familiar, far too familiar to fool myself. I grabbed the car keys and rushed out of the bridal shop, ignoring the sales assistant's calls. I slipped into the car, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white; during the forty-minute drive, Kevin Gabriel's recent strange behavior kept surfacing in my thoughts. He was frequently home late, always kept his phone face down, even took it into the shower, and would get inexplicably irritated whenever Ruby Wade was mentioned. By the time I arrived at the sports center, the concert was already halfway over. I bought an overpriced ticket from a scalper and hurried into the packed venue. A sea of glow sticks shimmered like stars; amid the deafening music, I squeezed through the crowd, my eyes fixed on the stage. Ruby Wade wore a white wedding gown as she sang "White Moonlight," with a pink rabbit plush clumsily dancing by her side. Every movement carried a careful, tentative charm. The focus and intensity in his eyes was a side of Kevin Gabriel I had never seen before. As the music ended, Ruby Wade smiled as she took off the rabbit headpiece: "Let me introduce a friend who's been secretly preparing this for me for quite some time." Kevin Gabriel's face appeared on the big screen, a thin sheen of sweat at his temple, his gaze startlingly bright. Before I could react, Ruby Wade stood on tiptoe and pressed a clear kiss to his lips. The whole room erupted, but I felt all my strength drain away, barely steadying myself against the railing.