Too Late to Regret

My name is Monica Quinn. Today is the day Erik Stafford and I hold our wedding. I had been preparing for this wedding for a full six months; from the venue decorations to the guest list, every detail was handled personally by me. The total cost of the wedding alone was no less than thirty million. I stood in the makeup room, gazing at myself in the mirror clad in a pure white wedding dress, unable to suppress a faint smile at the corners of my lips. I believed today would be the happiest day of my life. Yet, I never could have imagined that a sudden, unexpected catastrophe would shatter all my hopes. When I arrived at the wedding venue brimming with joy, what greeted me was utter devastation. The aisle, once covered in a red carpet, was now littered with colorful confetti and scattered doll parts. My fiancé, Erik Stafford, was crouched on the floor, gently stroking two small white dogs. Those two little dogs were dressed in miniature versions of a wedding dress and a suit. I stood frozen in place, my mind completely blank. At that moment, a woman in a professional suit with flawless makeup approached; she was Erik's secretary, Gwendolyn Salazar. Gwendolyn crossed her arms, her eyes filled with provocation as she stared at me. "Ms. Quinn, I'm terribly sorry, but these two little dogs belong to me. They were recently diagnosed with a terminal illness and don't have many days left." "Erik cares deeply for them and wants to help fulfill their wedding dream, so unfortunately, you have to suffer this injustice." I looked at Erik Stafford in disbelief, desperate for an explanation. But Erik merely stood up, cast me a cold glance, his tone completely lacking any apology: "Monica, what Gwendolyn said is true. These two dogs have been with her for a long time, and I cannot let them leave with regrets." "Your wedding can be held some other time." I felt as though an invisible hand was gripping my heart tightly, the pain so fierce I could barely breathe. "Erik, this is our wedding—the wedding I have painstakingly prepared for half a year!" I said with a trembling voice, tears welling in my eyes. Gwendolyn sneered, stepped forward, and reached out to tear at my wedding dress. "Ms. Quinn, don't be so petty. It's just a wedding dress—what's wrong with letting the little dogs wear it?" I instinctively wanted to dodge, but Erik Stafford reached out and pressed his hand on my shoulder, stopping my movement. "Monica, stop making a fuss," his tone carried a hint of impatience, "It's just a piece of clothing; what harm is there in giving it to them?" Under Erik Stafford's indulgence, Secretary Salazar forcibly tore off my wedding dress and then draped it over one of the little dogs. The guests around began whispering, their peculiar gazes stabbing at me like needles. "So Mr. Stafford cares this much for Secretary Salazar's dogs. Poor Ms. Quinn, how miserable she must be." "Yes, the wedding was turned into a wedding for the dogs; no one could bear that." "I believe Mr. Stafford doesn't truly love Ms. Quinn; otherwise, how could he do such a thing?" Those whispers of gossip reached my ears word for word, leaving me utterly humiliated. Unable to hold back any longer, I cried out to Erik Stafford, "Erik, I don't want this wedding anymore. I refuse to marry!" At my words, Erik Stafford's face instantly darkened. He seized a bottle of red wine from the table, ruthlessly twisted off the cap, and splashed the wine onto my face. The red wine trickled down my hair and cheeks, soaking my gown and snuffing out the last flicker of hope within me. "Monica, do you think you can have or refuse this marriage at your whim?" Erik Stafford's gaze was as cold as a dagger dipped in poison. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket again, lit it, and savagely pressed the burning tip onto the back of my hand. The searing pain made me scream out loud; the burning on the back of my hand felt as if it was piercing through my skin, reaching all the way to the bone. I gritted my teeth against the pain, biting my lip hard to keep from making a sound. My hand clenched tightly around a piece of paper in my pocket—it was a diagnosis report for Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. A few days ago, I went to the hospital for a check-up and was shocked to learn I had ALS. I hesitated about whether to tell Erik Stafford, but now it seems utterly pointless. In his heart, perhaps I am worth less than even his secretary's two dogs. I endured it all in silence; tears mingled with red wine, blurring my vision. I know that from this moment forward, there is no longer any chance between Erik Stafford and me.