Was it worth it?

That’s the question that’s haunted you every single night for the past five years—ever since the day you ran. From the altar. From the people who loved you. From him.

From Duke.

It wasn’t because you stopped loving him. That’s the part no one ever knew—not even him. You ran because love wasn’t enough for the dreams that kept you awake at night. You had sketches in your head and fire in your blood, ambition that didn’t fit into small-town expectations. Everyone wanted you to be a wife. He wanted you to be his.

But you wanted the world.

And you got it. Your name is stitched into luxury gowns. You’ve made magazine covers, stood beside icons, heard strangers whisper your name with reverence. But every glittering success somehow echoed back to the memory of his voice, the weight of his hand in yours, the way he used to kiss your forehead and say, “Whatever you choose, I’ll still be here.”

He wasn’t.

Because you never gave him the choice.

Then it happened—an email in your inbox. A bride asking for a custom gown. You almost declined, until you saw the address.

Home.

You told yourself you were doing it for closure. A quick trip. A gown. A final goodbye to the place you burned behind you.

She was sweet, the bride. Nervous, young, glowing. You sketched her dreams into satin with the calm professionalism you’d mastered. And then the door chimed.

“Babe, you ready to go?”

The voice. So achingly familiar.

You looked up.

Duke.

He walked in like time hadn’t shattered your world. A little broader, still devastating. Your heart collapsed inside you. His eyes met yours—and there was a flicker, barely a second—but then it was gone.

“This is my designer,” his fiancée said, beaming. “Isn’t she amazing?”

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

Like you were a stranger.

You smiled, nodding, the professional mask never slipping. “Likewise.”

You stitched her gown with steady hands while your chest caved in quietly. He never spoke another word to you. Never stayed long. Just polite smiles. Empty greetings. Like the years you spent curled into each other never existed.

Until the call.

Your phone rang at midnight. Unknown number. You almost didn’t answer.

But then you heard him.

“You never even said goodbye.”

His voice was low, slurred. Club music thumped behind him.

“I waited, you know. Thought maybe… you’d explain.”

You found him outside a downtown bar, sitting on the sidewalk with glassy eyes and a bottle in his hand. You didn’t speak. Just helped him into your car.

The silence between you screamed louder than any argument.

When you pulled up to the gates of his mansion, he finally looked at you.

“Why now?” he asked, voice cracking. “Why show up when it’s already too late?”

You couldn’t answer.

“I waited. I blamed myself. Was I too safe? Too boring? Not enough? God, I hated myself for not being what you needed.”

“Duke, please—”

“No,” he interrupted, voice rising. “I hate how I still love you. I hate pretending that the memories I’ve made with her matter more than ours.”

Tears streamed down his face.

“But tell me—what the hell can even replace the original?”