Werewolf

He frowned, reaching out as if to wipe away my tears, but I pulled away. &quot;This has nothing to do with Vera. Can you stop making a scene?&quot;

 &quot;Would I have called you three times if I was okay? You didn’t answer because you were too embarrassed in front of her, right?&quot; I snapped, my voice trembling with anger.

 He started to lose his patience. &quot;Summer, stop it.&quot;

 &quot;Ethan, I watched the surveillance footage from that night.&quot;

 That night, he had been practicing the piano. My call rang through, and Vera suggested he hang up and keep practicing. His friends teased him, calling him a well-behaved boy. Even though he answered my call, he hung up before I could say a word.

 That night, I didn’t say goodnight like I usually did. I didn’t go home. He didn’t notice anything was wrong—or maybe he did, but didn’t care.

 If only he had cared even a little, ma

I still went to his house with him.

 He told me that he could fix my hand.

 He took me to see many renowned doctors, but they all shook their heads in response.

 He started spending more time with me, talking about the wedding details.

 Gradually, I stopped expecting anything.

 Vera wore the custom wedding dress that Ethan had shown me just days ago.

 Her exquisite makeup and red nails showcased her vitality. She looked me up and down, then asked, &quot;Summer West, do you think this wedding dress is pretty?&quot;

 Vera walked calmly down the stairs, her presence filling the room as if she were the real mistress of the house, while I felt like an insignificant outsider.

 The maid poured us tea. &quot;Miss White, so you and Mr. Quinn are finally getting married. This dress is gorgeous; Mr. Quinn picked it out himself. He really put a lot of thought into it.&quot;

 &quot;Martha, y

I hated Ethan, but logic told me he wasn’t obligated to save me, and I shouldn’t blame him.

 But I couldn’t help it—he was my fiancé. We had promised to marry each other. If only he had given me a few more seconds, just enough time to say something, instead of hanging up on me with a quick, &quot;I’m busy.&quot;

 Or maybe, if only he had called me that night when I hadn’t come home. If only he had noticed something was wrong.

 I had never stayed out all night before.

 He knew where I was. I had told him. I had really told him.

 The scattered sheets of paper on the floor seemed to mock my foolishness. My persistence felt like a joke.

 When I was a child, no one supported my passion for painting. I had walked this path alone, and somehow, I had gained a little recognition along the way.

 But it felt like the universe was playing a cruel joke on me, brutally reminding me that these achievements, these moments of happiness, were merely temporary gifts. Now, it was time for them to be taken away.

 I threw all my painting supplies into the trash and stuffed the finished works into a bag, planning to throw them away the next day.

 In the middle of the night, I received a message from a friend: Ethan had announced our engagement at the banquet.

 He probably still had no idea what had happened to me.

 Someone who could never paint again.

 He was celebrating his success at the banquet and casually announced our engagement, but he didn’t reveal the bride’s name. The crowd subtly shifted their attention to Vera White, who was standing beside him—an ideal couple, a match made in heaven.

 I lay in my tiny apartment, surrounded by broken fragments, the floor littered with absurdity.

 The next day, their names and a video appeared on the trending topics.

 Piano prodigy Ethan announces his upcoming wedding to childhood friend Vera White.

 The comments flooded with well-wishes.

 In the afternoon, Ethan came to my door. It was probably the first time he had ever come here.

 It was just as well—I had planned to clear things up.

 I opened the door to find him standing there, his eyes scanning the empty apartment. &quot;Where are your paintings?&quot;

 &quot;I can’t paint anymore.&quot;

 &quot;Are you kidding me? What happened? Why did you block me from receiving any messages?&quot;

 Ethan glared at me, as though he were reprimanding a disobedient child. &quot;Summer, stop playing games. Our wedding is in a month.&quot;

 &quot;I know I’ve been neglecting you lately, but you can’t always act this way. Pack yourself up and come home with me.&quot;

 His indifference made it feel as though this entire situation had been nothing more than my personal drama from the start.

 I laughed, but my laughter soon turned into tears. &quot;Go home? To where? Where is home? To the home you share with Vera? You’ve already announced your wedding on Instagram. What’s the point of me being there?&quot;

 He furrowed his brow, his expression distant. &quot;I announced our engagement last night as a surprise for you. You weren’t in the right state, and the friends and fans misunderstood. I didn’t handle it properly. I’ve already had them delete the post. This has nothing to do with Vera. She’s a victim too.&quot;

 Every word from him seemed to defend Vera, while blaming me for not being there. Victim? Innocent? What was I then? A joke?

 Tears streamed down my face, but for the first time, he didn’t show annoyance.

 &quot;Then why didn’t you answer my call that night?&quot; I asked through my sobs.

 &quot;I did answer it. I was practicing the piano. You know how important that competition was,&quot; he said, sinking into the couch, frustration evident in his voice.

 &quot;Then why did you hang up after you answered?&quot; I questioned, my voice trembling.

 &quot;Can you stop making a scene? I told you, I was practicing. You kept calling me three times in a row.&quot; His voice rose, but then he seemed to realize his outburst. &quot;Alright, alright. It’s my fault, Summer. I’m sorry.&quot;

 I looked at him through my tears. &quot;It was Vera who told you not to answer my calls, wasn’t it?&quot;


He frowned, reaching out as if to wipe away my tears, but I pulled away. &quot;This has nothing to do with Vera. Can you stop making a scene?&quot;

 &quot;Would I have called you three times if I was okay? You didn’t answer because you were too embarrassed in front of her, right?&quot; I snapped, my voice trembling with anger.

 He started to lose his patience. &quot;Summer, stop it.&quot;

 &quot;Ethan, I watched the surveillance footage from that night.&quot;

 That night, he had been practicing the piano. My call rang through, and Vera suggested he hang up and keep practicing. His friends teased him, calling him a well-behaved boy. Even though he answered my call, he hung up before I could say a word.

 That night, I didn’t say goodnight like I usually did. I didn’t go home. He didn’t notice anything was wrong—or maybe he did, but didn’t care.

 If only he had cared even a little, maybe things would have been different.

 He was shocked. &quot;You watched the footage over such a sm

Chapter 4