One Mistake 17

Chapter 17 

For the first time in what felt like forever, Evelyn woke up naturally, with no buzzing alarms, no icy air biting at her skin. She stared blankly at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented–until she remembered. This wasn’t the icy, sterile room at the Caldwell estate. 

No 6 a.m. wake–up calls to prepare breakfast. No demanding mother–in–law waiting to be served. No 

Brandon Caldwell. 

Shaking her head slightly, she slipped out of bed barefoot and opened the window. A moist breeze carrying 

the scent of salt and sea rolled in. 

Downstairs, the woman running the breakfast stall was deep–frying dough sticks–the sizzle and warm, savory aroma drifted up to the apartment. 

“Perfect timing,” Claire poked her head out of the kitchen, holding two steaming cups of soy milk. “Fried dough’s almost out of the pot. Go wash up before it gets cold.” 

Evelyn sat down at the small dining table, sipping the hot soy milk in small, careful gulps. 

“What’s the plan for today?” Claire asked, scrolling through her phone. “Feel like walking down to the 

beach?” 

“I was thinking of checking out the fabric market,” Evelyn set her cup down. “My mom left me her wedding gown… I want to try restoring it.” 

The fabric market sat hidden deep in the city’s aging district, its alleys narrow and tangled like loose thread. 

Evelyn stood in the crowded aisle of the bus, watching unfamiliar buildings pass by through the window. 

Sunlight warmed her face through the glass. And for the first time in a long time–she felt it. Freedom. 

The market buzzed with voices and footsteps. 

Evelyn crouched in front of a little fabric shop, carefully picking through bolts of lace. 

The shop owner, a kindly old man with reading glasses, leaned in to help match colors. “This imported lace is a great fit for gown restoration,” he said, adjusting his specs. Evelyn’s fingertips traced the delicate lace like a memory long buried–fragile, yet still intact. 

Then she suddenly heard hurried footsteps behind her. 

“Evelyn!” 

She turned to see Ryan Hays dashing over, arms full of thick design books, nearly tripping over his own feet in excitement. 

She remembered him as the awkward kid always hiding behind his sister’s legs–now he stood tall, 

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confident, a softness still lingering in his gaze. 

He stopped, panting, in front of her. “I got the design materials you asked for–had a friend bring them in.” 

She took the books from him–fresh issues of International Bridal Design and several technical manuals. 

As she flipped through the elegant embroidery sketches, an idea began to form. 

“This is a lot… probably expensive,” she said, looking up at him. 

“It’s fine,” Ryan wiped sweat from his brow and gave her a shy smile. “My sister said you used to study 

design and even won awards. This is nothing.” 

On the ride back, Ryan drove them through narrow coastal roads. Evelyn suddenly realized–this boy who 

used to trail behind them as a kid had grown into a tall, broad–shouldered young man. 

After dinner, as Claire was doing the dishes, she called out, “Has my brother been coming over here every 

day?” 

Evelyn was sorting through fabrics. She paused. “He just dropped off some materials.” 

“Oh please,” Claire smirked, flicking water off her fingers. “That kid’s had a crush on you since middle school. Remember that summer you stayed with us? He used to spy on you from the crack in the door.” 

The doorbell rang. 

Ryan stood outside with two cups of milk tea. “Saw they had a new flavor on the way here.” 

He caught sight of Claire’s teasing smirk and turned bright red from the ears down. 

“Come in.” Evelyn took the milk tea from him, choosing not to respond to Claire’s jab. 

Later that evening, Evelyn sat hunched over her makeshift workspace, the dim desk lamp casting soft shadows over the tattered wedding gown. She threaded the needle and began the delicate process of stitching. 

Halfway through, the needle slipped. A sharp sting. Blood beaded on her fingertip–and for a moment, she just sat there, motionless, watching it bloom. 

A droplet of blood welled up, and she stared at it in a daze. 

“Need a hand?” 

Ryan’s voice came from the doorway. 

He held out a bandage, looking awkward but sincere. 

“I’m fine,” she said, not looking up. 

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He quietly placed the bandage on the table, but said nothing more. 

Evelyn tied off the final thread and snipped it clean. The torn seam along the gown’s waist had been fully 

mended. 

“All done?” Claire poked her head in. 

“Yeah.” Evelyn hung the dress back on the rack and took a sip of tea. “Easier than I thought. A few spots still don’t match perfectly with the original thread color, though.” 

Claire leaned in for a closer look. “No one’ll notice. You could sell this in a boutique.” 

“I’m not selling it.” Evelyn shook her head. “It was my mom’s.” 

Claire didn’t press. She simply patted Evelyn’s shoulder. “What do you want for dinner? Ryan picked up a fish earlier said he’s making pickled fish stew.” 

“He cooks?” Evelyn raised a brow. 

“Pretends to,” Claire rolled her eyes. “Watched the tutorial three times, still didn’t clean the scales properly. You’d better check the kitchen before he sets it on fire.” 

Evelyn chuckled and followed her downstairs. 

In the kitchen, Ryan was wrestling with the slippery fish, trying to hold it still as the knife clattered loudly against the chopping board. 

When he saw them walk in, he looked up. “Almost done! Just give me five more minutes!” 

“You’re butchering that poor fish into pulp,” Claire scoffed, waving a jagged chunk of ginger like a judge’s gavel. “Even a dog would turn its nose up at that mess.” 

Ryan protested, “It’s my first time! Gotta practice, right?” 

Evelyn rolled up her sleeves with a sigh. “Move aside before you burn down the kitchen.” 

Ryan quickly stepped aside, but hovered close–passing her seasonings, grabbing dishes, occasionally asking, “Is that enough salt?” 

“Should we turn the heat down?” 

Soon, the smell of pickled fish stew filled the entire kitchen. 

Claire leaned against the doorframe and suddenly said, “Oh–almost forgot. Brandon Caldwell showed up yesterday.” 

Evelyn’s hand paused for a fraction of a second, but she kept moving, tossing scallions into the pot. “What did he want?” 

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“He asked where you were,” Claire scoffed. “I told him I didn’t know, and he wouldn’t believe me. Kept insisting I pass along some message–said he regrets everything, wants to see you.” 

Ryan frowned. “Why are you even talking to that guy?” 

“I didn’t talk to him,” Claire shrugged. “I’m just relaying the message. It’s not like Evelyn’s going back to 

him.” 

Evelyn turned off the stove, her voice calm. “No. I’m not.” 

Ryan handed her a small bowl. “Want to taste the broth? See if it’s too salty?” 

She took a sip and nodded. “Just right.” 

Claire declared she was starving. Ryan scrambled to serve the rice. Evelyn plated the fish stew into a large bowl. As laughter filled the room and knives clinked against forks, no one brought up Brandon again. 

But Evelyn knew the past wasn’t done with her–not yet.