It had been two weeks since Saraphina last heard from Christian.
Two weeks of silence, after that passionate night.
Two weeks of endless waiting.
Each day stretched longer than the last.
She told herself that he was busy, work had swallowed him up. But the nights were the worst—lying awake in a cold bed, wondering if he even thought of her.
This morning was no different. She carried a tray of tea into the living room where Christian's mother, Tessa, sat like a queen on her throne, flipping through glossy magazines.
Saraphina placed the tray gently before her, bowing her head slightly.
"Good girl," her mother-in-law said, her sharp eyes sweeping Saraphina from head to toe. Then, as if it were a casual afterthought, she added,
"Since you studied fashion, you should design your own wedding gown. Sketch it, take a picture, and send it to Christian."
Saraphina blinked in confusion.
"Christian?" she asked softly.
"Yes," the older woman replied briskly.
"He's in Paris right now. He said he'll get the best materials there, and have a tailor sew it for you. I'll handle the rest of the wedding planning."
Saraphina's heart lurched. Paris? Christian hadn't told her anything. She had been starving for a single word from him, and now she learned from his mother that he was in another country.
She swallowed hard, her voice trembling.
"He… he wants the wedding by the end of the month?"
"That's what he said." Her mother-in-law didn't even look up. "So, hurry with your design. Don't waste time."
Saraphina nodded, but her mind was spinning. She cleared the tray with shaky hands and excused herself quickly.
The moment she reached the hallway, she pulled out her phone and dialed Christian's number. Once. Twice. A third time. Each attempt ended the same way—
The number you have dialed is currently not reachable.
Her breath grew shallow. She leaned against the wall, clutching the phone to her chest. The silence on the other end felt like knives pressing into her ribs.
Why hasn't he called me? Why do I only hear of his plans through his mother?
Memories clawed at her—the nights she spent feeding him instant noodles, encouraging his dreams, sketching designs while he studied, believing they would rise together. She had sacrificed everything, even fashion school, just so he could finish his studies. She only completed two years before filing for a leave of absence, convincing herself it was temporary.
But now… even her passion for fashion seemed like a distant dream.
Saraphina slumped onto the edge of her bed, staring at her sketchbook on the table. The blank pages mocked her. She wanted to draw, but her hands wouldn't move. Tears stung her eyes.
She whispered into the empty room, "Christian… why won't you answer me?"
The silence answered back.
She pressed the phone to her ear one last time, desperate, hoping his voice would break through the static. But all she got was the hollow ring before the line cut off again.
Her chest tightened. Something inside her told her this was only the beginning—
The beginning of a heartbreak deeper than she had ever known.
Saraphina sat in silence for a long while after the call attempts failed. The ache in her chest lingered, but she forced herself to breathe. He will come back… we are getting married anyway, she told herself, clinging to the fragile thread of hope.
If she could just keep moving, keep preparing, then maybe the silence wouldn't hurt so much
So, she decided.
She would sketch her wedding dress.
It wasn't just any dress. It would be the one thing that belonged to her—something no one could take away, something that held the pieces of her heart stitched inside it.
With quiet determination, Saraphina slipped into the storeroom, then she set her sketchbook on the rickety wooden table.
For hours, she bent over the paper, pencil trembling in her hand. The sound of graphite scratching against the page filled the silence. Around her, crumpled sheets of paper piled up, scattered across the floor like fallen leaves.
Every failed attempt ended in frustration—lines too shaky, designs too plain, nothing worthy of a dream she had once abandoned.
She hadn't sketched in years. Ever since dropping out of fashion school, she had buried her passion deep inside her, convincing herself it no longer mattered. But tonight, she dug it back out, raw and desperate, because this dress… this dress mattered.
It would be hers.
It would mark the beginning of her forever.
Days slipped by in a blur of frustration and stubborn persistence. Her fingers cramped from gripping the pencil too tightly, her eyes burned from sleepless nights, but she refused to stop. Each mistake only fueled her to try again.
One morning, as the first rays of sunlight streamed into the storeroom, Saraphina looked down at the page before her.
Her breath caught.
The dress was exquisite—flowing lines that seemed alive, a silhouette both graceful and powerful, delicate details that whispered of beauty and resilience. It wasn't just a wedding dress. It was her soul on paper, woven from hope, pain, and every sacrifice she had made.
Tears blurred her vision. This time, they were tears of joy. Slowly, a smile curved across her lips, the kind she hadn't felt in so long.
Saraphina traced the design with trembling fingers, whispering, "This… this is mine."
For the first time in years, she felt proud of herself. Proud not for what she had given up, but for what she had created.
And though Christian still hadn't called, Saraphina clung to her sketch like a lifeline. Because when the day finally came, she would wear not just a dress, but a piece of her heart.
The next morning, after another restless night with Christian's number still unreachable, Saraphina decided she couldn't wait any longer.
She carefully propped the sketch against the light, adjusted the angle, and snapped a picture with her phone. Her heart raced as she clicked send, attaching it to the message for Tessa, her soon-to-be mother-in-law.
After serving Tessa breakfast, she sat quietly at the corner of the dining room, waiting for her reaction.
Tessa adjusted her glasses and studied the image on her phone. Her lips curved, not into a smile, but into a faint, amused smirk. "Ah… Christian spoils you too much, Saraphina," she said lightly, setting the phone down. "Wanting to have a wedding gown sewn in Paris, of all places… Hmph.
Even I never had the luxury of a Paris gown, and I am his mother. Imagine that."
Saraphina opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, Amelia—Christian's sister—leaned across the table, peering at the sketch with narrowed eyes. "This is what you designed?" she asked sharply. "It's… nice for someone who didn't graduate from fashion school. But… do you really think this would fit you?"
Her words sliced without mercy. "You're still… you know… fat."
Saraphina's chest tightened. Instinctively, her gaze dropped to her own body. Her arms, her waist, the soft curves she had stopped paying attention to for a long time.
She tugged at the fabric of her dress, trying to hide herself, as if Amelia's gaze could strip her bare.
Tessa waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, stop, Amelia. The tailors in Paris will know what to do with her measurements. They're professionals. They can handle… adjustments."
But Amelia only smirked, tilting her head.
"Still… maybe they should reduce the size a bit. It'll look more flattering. And Saraphina…" She tapped her manicured nails against her teacup. "…you could hit the gym. Just to lose a little fat before the wedding. It'll make the gown prettier—and my brother, proud."
Tessa hummed in approval. "That's actually not a bad idea."
Saraphina hesitated. Her fingers curled tightly against her skirt. It stung—every word they said chipped at her confidence.
Yet when she looked up, they were both watching her with expressions that seemed almost… expectant. Like this was advice, not ridicule. Like they wanted the best for her.
So she forced a small smile, her voice soft. "Alright. I'll try."
Amelia leaned back, satisfied. "Good. You should be thankful, Saraphina. My brother cares about you more than you realize. Most women wouldn't get half of what you're getting."
The words carried a sting, but Saraphina swallowed it down. Instead, she let herself feel a strange warmth. Maybe… maybe this was their way of caring. Their way of making sure she was ready to be the bride she dreamed of being.
Tessa sipped her tea gracefully, as though the matter were settled. "Now, don't burden yourself with unnecessary worries. Christian told me everything is under control. The wedding preparations are being handled. You just need to be a bride and relax. When he returns from Paris, he'll bring the gown himself."
Saraphina nodded, clutching the hem of her dress tightly under the table. Despite the quiet doubts whispering inside her, she held onto the one fragile truth she wanted to believe—
He would come back.
She would be his bride. His wife. Mrs. Miller.
Saraphina's lips curved as she hugged the sketchpad to her chest. In her mind, she saw it—an aisle glowing with candles, white petals scattered under her feet. She walked slowly, her veil floating behind her. Faces turned, eyes softened, whispers followed her every step.
And at the altar, stood Christian. His suit sharp, his smile brighter than the lights above. His hand stretched toward her, waiting.
Her breath caught. The picture felt so real she almost reached out.
But the room was silent. Only the creak of the ceiling fan answered her. The pile of torn papers lay scattered across the floor like fallen hopes.
Still, Saraphina pressed the sketch tighter against her heart. She shut her eyes, forcing the image to stay.
A soft laugh slipped from her lips, fragile and trembling.
"Yes," she whispered, echoed through the store room.
"He'll come back. He has to."