Chapter 4He Locked Me On The Interstate

Wyatt didn't come out right away.

Instead, the muffled sound of my nightstand drawer scraping open vibrated through the wall.

I pushed past Trent. He grabbed my arm, his grip tightening like a vise. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Let go of me," I said.

He didn't. His fingers dug into the fresh bruise on my forearm.

Inside the bedroom, Myra’s soft voice rose again. "Is this Lydia's? It looks antique."

"Yeah," Wyatt replied casually. "Some old family heirloom from her grandmother. You like it?"

Myra giggled softly. "I just wanted to try it on. It feels so classic. I always wished I had a grandmother who left me things like this."

I wrenched my arm free from Trent’s grip and flung the bedroom door open.

It wasn't locked.

Inside, Myra was sliding the solid silver band over her wrist. It was a delicate, hand-carved piece, and as it settled against her arm, it made a soft, metallic clink.

The sound made my stomach turn.

"Take it off," I said.

Wyatt stood by the bed, his face tightening. "She's just trying it on, Lydia."

"Take. It. Off."

Myra flinched as if I had struck her, hurriedly trying to tug the silver band back over her hand. But her wrist joint was wider than the opening, and the metal caught on her bone.

Tears instantly welled in her eyes. "I'm sorry... it's stuck. I can't get it off."

Wyatt grabbed her hand gently. "Don't force it. You'll bruise yourself."

He spoke to her with such tender care—care he hadn't shown for my scraped knee or my bleeding hand.

I walked over to the dresser. Wyatt stepped in front of me, his chest puffed out. "Lydia, stop acting like a lunatic."

"That belonged to my grandmother."

"I know," he said, his tone dripping with dismissive boredom. "I’ll take her to a jeweler tomorrow to have it cut off safely if we have to. I'll pay for the repair."

Myra shook her head, sobbing. "No, we can't do that tomorrow. We have to leave for the slopes early."

Trent leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "It's a cheap piece of silver. How much could it possibly be worth? Myra's skin is turning red, and all you care about is some old metal."

I walked past them to the master bathroom and grabbed a bottle of liquid soap.

Wyatt seemed to take this as a sign of submission, his shoulders dropping slightly. "That's better. You're not a bad person, Lydia. You're just way too sensitive."

As I poured the soap over Myra’s wrist, her cries grew louder. She shrank back, burying her face in Wyatt’s chest as if she were being tortured.

It took ten agonizing minutes of pulling and maneuvering before the bracelet finally slipped free.

The polished silver face now bore a deep, ugly scratch where it had scraped against her bone. I wiped the soap off with a tissue and clutched the cold metal in my palm.

Myra sniffled, her nose red. "Lydia, I'm so sorry. I can buy you a new one to make up for it."

I looked at her. "You can't replace this."

Wyatt's face fell into a deep scowl. "Enough. She apologized. What more do you want?"

Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a FaceTime call from Wyatt’s mother.

He swiped to answer, and the camera instantly captured the disarray of my bedroom. Seeing Myra’s tear-stained face, his mother’s voice shrilled through the speaker.

"Lydia, are you bullying Myra again?"

"Mrs. Miller, no, it’s not her fault," Myra sobbed into the screen. "I accidentally put on Lydia's bracelet, and it got stuck."

Wyatt's mother let out a sharp, disgusted snort. "I thought it was some priceless diamond the way you're acting. Once you’re married, everything in that household is shared property anyway. What’s the big deal about someone touching a bracelet?"

My fingers tightened around the silver band until the edges bit into my skin.

His mother continued her lecture. "Wyatt works so hard, and Myra is a sweet girl who knows how to help him unwind. If you actually want to marry into our family, Lydia, you need to learn to be generous."

Down the hall, in the study, sat a box of custom wedding invitations I had spent weeks designing.

I had paid the venue deposits. I had booked the photographer. I had paid half of the apartment's rent and security deposit.

His family had told me that since Wyatt was transitioning careers, we should keep things simple and that I should handle the upfront costs. They said I should be patient.

And now, even my grandmother’s heirloom was considered "shared property."

"Mrs. Miller," I said, my voice quiet but perfectly clear.

"The wedding is off."

The screen went dead silent.

Wyatt snapped his head up, his eyes widening in disbelief. "What did you just say?"