Page 17 of Promised Love
Also, Grandma baked another great cake with our names on it. It was really, really good.
When we get divorced, I’ll miss her cakes.
~ Autumn
From: lukasspencer
To: autumnthefallqueen
Hi, Autumn,
I couldn’t buy you something special enough, and the dog tag is the only one-of-a-kind thing I own.
And if someday I get hurt or injured, you can come running to the hospital wearing it. Now that would be a scene from one of your romance movies, wouldn’t it? Just remember, if you ever get such a call, don’t forget to bring our marriage certificate. You might have to prove you’re family.
Enjoy the cakes while you can. I’m happy you’re getting something out of this marriage.
- Lukas
My breath hitches. The dog tag, which I’ve been wearing since last night, suddenly feels heavy.
From: autumnthefallqueen
To: lukasspencer
What the heck, Lukas?
That was a terrible joke. Why would you even say that? I don’t want you to get hurt or injured. You are one of the few friends I have. And aren’t you a daredevil?
~ Autumn
* * *
I clutch the cold metal tightly as my breathing escalates, but before the tears that are threatening to fall can make an appearance, there’s a knock on my door.
“Autumn, are you okay?” Chiara softly knocks again. “The taxi’s here.” I close the wooden box and slide it into the bag, along with my marriage certificate.
“Yeah. I’m ready.” I walk out and lock the door behind me. “Can you give this to Mom?” I hand her the keys to my room.
She nods, sliding them into her jeans pocket. “You take care and don’t you worry about anything here, okay?”
“Thank you.” I hug her tightly, and she returns it with equal vigor.
We take the wooden staircase to the ground floor.
Mr. Big is waiting for us at the entrance, and he pats my cheek. “Call if you need anything, and take care.”
Tears I’ve been holding until now, drip down my cheeks. “I’m scared,” I whisper, throwing my arms around him.
“He’ll be alright.”
Two hours later, I’m standing at the reception desk of St. Peppers City Hospital, asking for my husband—a word I’ve avoided like someone avoids cold showers in icy winters.
My legs shake as I follow the receptionist’s instructions and walk toward the waiting room, unsure what I’ll find.
The automatic glass door of the waiting area opens, but my steps halt at the sight of a large group of men all dressed in a similar fashion. Jeans. Leather jackets. Leather boots.
My head spins with the image of Lukas floating before me. The last time I saw him—on the day of our wedding—he was on his motorcycle, riding toward the inn. Dressed in a blue shirt, black jeans, and a chestnut leather jacket.