For the last time.
Because this was the last time I was crying over Henry freaking Siebert.
***
That afternoon, Henry went full social media king with a nine-picture post.
Every shot? Corners of the house we were supposed to share after the wedding.
The caption read:
[Every room, every piece of furniture, every decoration—I chose them all myself, to give my baby a warm and happy home.]
Cue the peanut gallery in the comments:
[Congrats, Henry! Wishing you a healthy baby!]
[So you and Daphne are having a baby before the wedding? Congrats!]
[Your future wife is so lucky to have a husband like you. Jealous!]
[Canceling all my billion-dollar deals to make sure I’m at the wedding in three months!]
Then Betty swooped in:
[Everyone, please don’t misunderstand. This isn’t Henry’s wedding house—it’s mine.]
And just like that, the comment section flatlined.
Breaking the awkward silence, I dropped my own mic:
[This third-wheel game isn’t for me. I’m out. Best wishes to you both.]
No waiting for likes or angry replies—I deleted Henry and Betty faster than a bad selfie.
A few minutes later, Henry called.
“Daphne, haven’t you had enough?” he practically screamed.
I stayed chill. “I’m not making a scene.”
“Oh, really?” he snapped. “What you said on my post—that wasn’t a scene? Just trying to smear Betty, huh? Do you really need to paint her as the other woman to feel better? If you keep slandering her, then we won’t get married!”
Honestly, I felt nothing. His words hit like a wet noodle. My heart? Totally dead sea levels of calm.
“Henry,” I said, steady as a rock, “what makes you think I’d want someone else’s leftovers?”
