So when I sat in that private dining room ten years later, passing out wedding invitations and smiling at the old faces around me, I really meant it when I said I no longer hated him.
Hatred is heavy.
I carried it for years.
But somewhere along the way, while building a life with Liam, taking care of my parents, waking up in peace instead of anxiety, I realized hatred had quietly loosened its grip on me.
What remained was memory.
And clarity.
One of our old comrades coughed awkwardly and tried to lighten the mood.
“Well… then we’ll definitely be there.”
I smiled. “Good. Don’t you dare skip it.”
Across the table, Bert’s hand was still bleeding where the broken glass had cut into his palm. Someone beside him reached for a napkin, but he didn’t seem to notice.
He just stared at me.
At the ring on my finger.
At the invitation with my name and Liam’s printed together.
At the life he could have had and lost with his own hands.
I was the one who finally broke the silence.
“Make sure you come,” I said lightly. “My husband would love to meet everyone.”
That was what finally shattered whatever composure he had left.
He pushed back his chair so hard it scraped harshly across the floor.
“Shari,” he said, voice rough and shaking, “did you really stop loving me that completely?”
The room went still again.
I looked at him for a long time.
And then I answered honestly.
“Yes.”
His face went white.
I continued, because some endings deserve to be spoken clearly.
“The version of me that loved you died a long time ago, Bert. She died the day she stood in that reception room and heard another woman call you husband. She died the day you looked at her and said she was nobody important. She died the day she had to kneel on the floor and pick up money to save her father while you asked why she was humiliating herself.”
His throat moved, but he couldn’t speak.
“I survived,” I said softly. “But the love didn’t.”
For a second, his eyes filled with something so raw it almost looked like fear.
Not fear of me.
Fear of finally understanding that some losses are permanent.
One of the men at the table quietly set down his chopsticks. No one dared interrupt.
Bert’s voice came out hoarse.
“I gave up everything.”
I smiled a little and shook my head.
“No. You gave up the wrong things too late.”
He closed his eyes.
And in that moment, I truly saw the man he had become. Not powerful. Not imposing. Not the major general who once stood untouchable under everyone’s admiration.
Just a man trapped forever in the consequences of his own choices.
I stood up and adjusted my coat.
“Well,” I said, glancing around the room, “I have to go. My fiancé is waiting for me.”
Not husband yet.
Next month.
And the thought alone made warmth rise in my chest.
As I walked to the door, I heard Bert behind me, his voice barely holding together.
“Shari.”
I stopped, but I didn’t turn around.
After a long silence, he said, “I’m sorry.”
A decade too late.
But sincere.
I let out a slow breath and answered without bitterness.
“I know.”
Then I opened the door and stepped out.
Winter air rushed toward me, sharp and clean.
Outside, Liam was standing beneath a streetlamp waiting for me, one hand in the pocket of his coat, the other holding the umbrella he had brought because he knew I never remembered to check the forecast.
When he saw me, his whole face softened.
“There you are,” he said. “Cold?”
“A little.”
He draped his coat over my shoulders without another word, then noticed my expression and asked quietly, “You okay?”
I looked back once at the restaurant behind me.
At the past.
At the girl I used to be.
At the wreckage I had somehow walked away from.
Then I looked up at the man in front of me and smiled.
“Yeah,” I said. “I am now.”
He opened the umbrella over both of us, took my hand, and led me into the night.
Behind me, there was regret.
Ahead of me, there was love.
And this time, I walked toward it without fear.