My CEO Left Me 7 Times Novel by Astra Marlowe _ Novel




My CEO Left Me 7 Times Chapter 01

On the day of the wedding dress fitting, my fiancé suddenly pushed away the gown the assistant was holding.
"Forget it," he said coldly.
I turned around in shock.
"What do you mean?"
Patrick snuffed out his cigarette and let out a casual smirk.
"I’m not coming to the wedding. You can keep fitting the dress if you want."
A wave of absurdity washed over me. My voice was hoarse as I shot back,
"You’re the groom, and you’re not coming? Patrick, this is the seventh time you’ve backed out. What is it this time?"
Patrick gave a nonchalant shrug.
"I'm seeing a girl. She’s... different from the others."
"There are too many reporters at a wedding. If she finds out I’m married, it’ll break her heart."
"A wedding can go on without a groom—didn't we do exactly that at the engagement party? If you can't handle it, we can just push it to 'next time,' okay?"
My entire body went rigid, but Patrick didn't even notice as he turned and walked away.
The shop assistants exchanged awkward glances. I took a deep breath and rattled off a set of measurements:
"Alter the tuxedo to these sizes."
A wedding can’t happen without a groom.
Fine.
Then I’ll just find a new one.
…
On my phone, messages from that young girl's boyfriend kept pouring in.
It started with desperate pleas for me to stop Patrick from tearing them apart.
Then, it turned into venomous curses me for being incompetent, unable to even keep an eye on a man, calling me a bitch, and asking why I haven't died yet.
I didn't reply to a single one.
How could I not have tried to persuade him?
Forcing the marriage time and time again, Patrick went from giving me half-hearted promises to looking at me with pure irritation.
"Serena, are you really that desperate for a wedding ring?"
The familiar face overlapped with my memories, but at seventeen, the blushing boy clearly said:
"Serena, when I grow up, I will definitely marry you."
I couldn't help but feel dazed. Is the person in front of me really the same person as the seventeen-year-old Patrick?
We were the most famous childhood sweethearts in all of San Francisco. My parents used to tease me, saying, "Serena, Patrick has truly spoiled you rotten."
I loved fine clothes and jewelry. In his youth, despite being the son of the richest man, Patrick often couldn't even pull out enough money for a meal from his pockets.
When others asked, he would smile recklessly:
"A couple of days ago I placed an unlimited bid to buy Serena an antique ring, so I spent it all."
I heard he also placed an unlimited bid last night, just because the young girl lingered in front of that exhibit for two extra seconds.
Walking out of the bridal shop, the Maybach at the entrance was swaying slightly. Its soundproofing was world-class, but not enough to drown out everything.
But getting closer, I could still hear a faint, intimate sound.
The girl was crying, begging him to be gentle.
The man chuckled softly: "Did he just message you?
Read it out loud."
"I... I will definitely work hard to give you a good life."
The girl's voice carried a sense of shame:
"Don't leave me."
What a coincidence.
Patrick had once said this exact sentence to me too.
I never needed a woman’s intuition to know what was happening.
Even as our relationship rotted in the dark, swarming with maggots, I was foolish enough to think I was still drowning in honey.
Patrick wasn’t the type of man to waste energy hiding his betrayal. Instead, he called me directly, his voice panting.
"Serena, I'm doing—"
At that moment, I was showing off the boxes of trinkets he’d sent me from Kingston to my friends.
For years, no matter where his business took him, he’d always pick up something special for me.
Thinking the line had gone bad, I asked like a fool:
"What are you doing?"
"I didn't hear you clearly, Patrick."
Two seconds of silence, the rustle of fabric, a man’s heavy sigh, and then—a woman’s flirtatious giggle.
"Making love, idiot."
The summer cicadas in San Francisco chirped endlessly, but a chill rose from the bottom of my heart.
An overnight red-eye flight, tears falling uncontrollably like a broken string of pearls.
When Patrick opened the door, his eyes were still heavy with sleep. He was shirtless, and the incriminating red marks on his abs were impossible to ignore.
He rubbed his hand over my swollen eyes, with no explanation, no apology, he only said:
"Do you want out, Serena?"
My mind was buzzing, and I asked over and over again, why.
Patrick’s eyes flickered with a strange emotion. "Because you're too stupid," he said.
"So stupid that I’ve lost the heart to keep lying to you."
That was the first time I hit him.
The slap echoed through the room.
For a moment, I felt a hollow emptiness in my chest.
What occupied my heart before anger was, surprisingly, heartache.
I was the one who could least bear to see him in pain.
When I was eighteen, the brakes failed in a multi-car pileup, and Patrick tried to protect me.
A shard from the windshield had pierced his hand, spraying blood everywhere.
But Patrick endured the pain, gently touched my hair, and breathed a sigh of relief.
"As long as Serena is fine, don't cry."
That scar was so deep, it still remained on Patrick's hand today, reminding me of how much he used to love me.
Obviously, he used to be the one who could least bear to see me in pain, too.
Patrick casually touched his reddened cheek, glanced at the Patek Philippe on his wrist, without a hint of anger in his eyes.
"Your phone, Serena."
On the other end was my father's exhausted voice.
The company was in debt, on the verge of bankruptcy, and finally, my father asked cautiously:
"Serena, could you talk to Patrick?"
"Ask him if we can move up the wedding date... for the sake of the alliance?"

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