Why Love Again

Fifty–five days. That’s how long it had been since my fiancé ghosted me. So, I called off the wedding.

The one I’d been dreaming about for eight years.

He was off in some Buddhist retreat, playing Florence Nightingale to his childhood sweetheart, Willow, who was supposedly battling depression.

He even managed to get the Evergreen Temple, usually bustling with tourists, shut down for six whole months!

Meanwhile, I was being hounded by reporters, thanks to his vanishing act. I was practically desperate, I drove up to Evergreen Temple, hoping to get some answers.

He had his security guards escort me down the mountain, claiming my presence would disturb the serenity.

It was the dead of winter. I collapsed at the foot of the mountain. Almost died.

When I woke up, I saw him, Connor, personally planting acres of roses. Right there in the middle of the supposedly sacred grounds.

Roses, the symbol of freakin‘ love. Six months later, he finally came down from his mountain, with Willow in tow.