He Chose Wrong I Chose Better (Irene and Ewing) novel Chapter 2

The photo showed a wristwatch—the very one I'd coveted for ages.

The instant I saw it, something inside me seemed to shatter, then slowly, piece by piece, knit itself back together. The ache faded, and in its place came a strange, airy calm.

At that moment, I finally let go.

In his heart, Magnolia would always matter more than I did.

But oddly enough, I found I didn't care as much anymore.

Late at night.

Half-asleep, I heard the door open and soft footsteps approaching the bed. Ewing's familiar scent washed over me as he slipped into bed and wrapped his arms around me.

But when his lips brushed close to mine, I instinctively turned my head away.

Both of us froze, startled by my automatic reaction. Suddenly wide awake, I lay there in the silence.

Maybe to escape the awkwardness, Ewing got up and all but fled into the bathroom, leaving his phone behind.

The screen kept lighting up with messages.

Magnolia: "Are you home yet?"

Ewing: "Almost."

Magnolia: "I can't get you off my mind."

Ewing didn't reply.

Scrolling up, I saw they'd been talking every single day.

I didn't bother reading more. The constant buzzing was just irritating.

I grabbed the phone and, with a flick of my wrist, tossed it neatly onto the couch.

Once, I would have been eaten up with jealousy over their endless conversations, day and night. But whenever I complained, Ewing would instantly shut me out, acting cold and distant.

He thought I was childish and insecure, a fiancée who didn't trust him.

But as a fiancé, did he ever understand the meaning of boundaries?

Gradually, I lost the urge to say anything at all.

A few minutes later, Ewing came out, freshly showered.

He paused when he saw his phone on the sofa.

"Irene, it's for you."

I picked it up, glanced at it, and couldn't help but laugh. "Let's not even talk about the color or the style—the size isn't even right."

"Why bother giving me something you bought for Magnolia?"

I slipped on my shoes and reached for the door.

Ewing blocked my way.

"It's not what you think. She broke up with her boyfriend. Got wasted at a bar. I took her to a hotel—she threw up everywhere—"

I cut him off. "So you bought her a new dress because hers was ruined. Gave her the watch to make her feel better. And when she sobered up and felt good enough to flaunt it all over social media to get under my skin, then you finally came home?"

"Irene! Do you have to put it that way?" I saw a flicker of hurt in his eyes.

"How else am I supposed to put it?" I looked at Ewing, amused.

He fell silent.

And beneath that innocent expression of his, somehow, everything was my fault again.