Page 21 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

EMILY

I t’s been an hour.

The house is quiet, except for the soft hum of my mother’s voice drifting in and out of the dining room.

She’s still admiring her ring under different lights, tilting her hand this way and that like she’s in a jewelry commercial, each sparkle confirming some new chapter in the fantasy she’s built for herself.

In another life—maybe even just a year ago—I would’ve been happy for her. I would’ve leaned in, asked for the full proposal story again, held her hand and gushed about the dress. But now, all I can feel is resentment. Because she got everything she wanted.

And I might’ve just lost the one thing I didn’t know I needed.

I haven’t moved from the couch. The soup has gone cold on the tray beside me, untouched. My fingers are still curled around the cushion like I’m bracing for impact.

Down the hall, a door slams.

Then—voices.

They start low, sharp around the edges. Cole’s voice carries first, hot and strained.

“…you didn’t even think to tell me?—”

Aidan answers, too calm. That measured, press-ready tone he always uses when he’s trying to win a crowd.

“It’s not about you, Cole. This is bigger than your?—”

“You don’t get to talk to me about bigger.”

The volume rises, both of them pushing over each other now. It’s impossible to make out everything, but fragments slice through the quiet like shrapnel.

“…years of pretending…”

“…always your image—never the truth?—”

“…you should be grateful.”

Then a loud thud, the sharp crack of something heavy colliding with the wall or floor. My body jerks. My pulse skids out.

I want it to end. I want Cole to walk out of that room, climb the stairs two at a time, and knock on my door like he’s done every night since that first kiss. I want him to look at me—really look—and say something, anything, that makes this make sense.

But instead, the house goes still again.

Seconds pass.

Then I hear it—the snarl of an engine starting outside.

I rush to the window, breath caught in my throat, and pull back the curtain just in time to see the blur of Cole’s car tearing down the drive. His tires kick up gravel, red taillights flashing once before they vanish into the dusk.

He’s gone.

Without me.