Chapter 2Traded For His Childhood Sweetheart

I looked at the roses in her arms and let out a soft, dry laugh.

I remembered a night years ago. Declan had smashed a set of dishes in a temper tantrum. He hadn’t replaced them. When I came home late from work, hungry and tired, there were no plates. He felt guilty, so he ran out into a pouring rainstorm.

He came back soaking wet, holding a bundle of white carnations.

At the time, I had laughed, calling him hopeless. "Who buys carnations for an apology? They look like funeral flowers."

Seeing Lacey holding those deep red roses, I realized he wasn't hopeless. He wasn't lacking in romance. He just didn't want to waste it on me.

That was why, for eight years, I only ever got the cheap stuff.

"Right," I said, my voice steady. "I'm Declan's 'bro.' Let me show you to the table."

When Declan saw Lacey walk in, he shot out of his chair, his eyes glued to her.

Carter, Declan's best friend, slid into the seat next to me. "Nora, look, don't read into it. He just hasn't seen Lacey in a long time. Don't be that jealous girlfriend."

I waved a hand dismissively. "Who's jealous? Don't they look good together?"

Carter frowned. This was the same man who had watched me drag myself out of bed with a 102-degree fever to bring Declan hangover meds. The man who had answered my 3:00 AM calls when Declan didn't come home.

To Carter, and probably to Declan, I wasn't a partner. I was a placeholder. A warm body. That’s why he felt comfortable coordinating Lacey’s arrival.

Carter didn't know what to say, so he drifted away.

Declan had left his phone on the table. I flipped it over. The case was gone—the one I bought him. In its place was a clear case, displaying a passport-style photo of him and Lacey, heads leaning together.

I picked it up, my hands trembling.

In eight years, Declan didn't have a single photo of me on his phone. "We see each other every day," he’d say. "Why do we need photos?"

I believed him. Like an idiot, I believed him.

But his laptop was a shrine to Lacey. Thousands of photos. Every angle. Every smile.

The party that was supposed to be my farewell turned into Lacey’s homecoming. Declan didn't leave her side. He blocked every glass of wine offered to her.

When I kept a polite, frozen smile on my face, Declan leaned over and hissed, "Stop looking at her like that. Can't you be generous for once? What is wrong with you?"

My head pounded. The acid in my stomach rose. He had traded my life for hers, and I was the one being selfish?

I grabbed a margarita from a passing tray, needing something to dull the edge.

Declan’s hand shot out, knocking the glass from my grip. It shattered. Red liquid splashed everywhere.

His other hand immediately clamped over Lacey’s eyes.

"Lacey, don't look! You know you faint at the sight of blood."

Lacey giggled, peeling his fingers away. She pinched his cheek. "Oh my god, Declan. That was a lie I told during Truth or Dare in high school. You still remember that? You dork."

Tears finally pricked my eyes. Not because of the wasted drink.

But because Declan remembered a throwaway lie from high school, yet he couldn't remember a single thing about me.

I hated the color blue. I’d told him a hundred times. Yet when we moved in together, he painted the living room navy. "I thought you liked blue," he’d said, looking genuinely confused.

I used to tell myself he just had a bad memory. I was too afraid to admit the truth: he didn’t want to remember.

Eight years is a long time to leave no trace.

Lacey walked over, patting Declan’s chest soothingly. "Nora, don't be mad. He gets intense when he drinks. I used to make him hot water with honey, and he’d settle right down."