The Plane Tickets He Hoarded The Wife He Hid novel Chapter 173

173 Chapter 173 What The River Knows

173 Chapter 173 What The River Knows

Blanche’s POV 1

My feet touched solid ground, and relief washed over me.

I brushed away my tears, shaking my head. “I’m okay. Just… rattled, that’s all.”

“You sure?” he asked, concern creasing his brow.

“Yeah, positive.” I nodded but kept my eyes down.

Vincent paused, then ventured carefully, “Are you thinking about Zain again?”

I rolled my eyes, snapping back, “Why the hell would I be?”

My sharp reaction made him raise an eyebrow. I could practically see him thinking, ‘She’s only getting defensive because he’s still

messing with her head.

But he dropped it–smart move.

Vincent drove us to the old town, and by the time we arrived, it was late into the night. The place was still alive and buzzing.

Crowds filled the streets, and tons of girls strutted around in retro outfits.

Vendors packed both sides of the walkway, their booths overflowing with handcrafted items–artisan jewelry, weird little trinkets,

decorative art pieces, and mouth–watering street food.

The old town had even more magic at night than during daylight hours. It was crowded, and the energy was infectious.

As Vincent and I wandered past a small trinket booth, the seller shouted, “Hey there, why don’t you grab something nice for your lady?”

A warm rush spread through my chest when the vendor assumed I was Vincent’s girlfriend, and I caught the huge grin that broke across

his face. He stopped dead and turned to me. “See anything that grabs you? Pick whatever you want. My treat.”

I moved closer to examine the booth, my eyes sweeping over the collection of handmade trinkets. I browsed casually, my fingers

brushing a few pieces, until something caught my attention–a delicate, detailed waterwheel.

The vendor noticed my interest and snatched it up. “Lady, you’ve got excellent taste! This is actually my most expensive item here.”

I hesitated, uncertain, but Vincent picked up on it immediately. “Package it up,” he told the vendor, reaching for his wallet.

I wanted it. He wasn’t about to let this opportunity pass.

“Vincent, you really don’t need to-“I began, but he cut me off with a wave.

He slapped down three hundred dollars before the vendor could even quote a price, and the man’s grin stretched wider.

He quickly wrapped the waterwheel and passed it to Vincent, saying, “Sir, you treat your lady right. She’s one lucky woman.”

Vincent accepted the wrapped waterwheel, beaming. He leaned toward the vendor and whispered, “Not my lady yet. But soon enough.”

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The vendor chuckled and said, “I hope that works out for you, sir?

Vincent made a confident sound. “It will. Just watch.”

With that, he faced me and offered the bag. “Look, I already bought it. No take–backs now.”

I stared at the bag for a beat, wavering, but finally reached out and took it. “Thank you,” I said softly.

Vincent shot me a teasing grin. “Words don’t cut it. If you really want to thank me, how about some… action?” he suggested.

Even though I knew he was messing around–probably hinting at something flirty–I tilted my head, serious. “What do you need me to

do?”

Vincent’s throat seemed to tighten. Whatever smart–ass comment he’d been ready to deliver–something about a kiss, maybe–got stuck.

With me looking at him so directly, so genuine, cracking jokes felt wrong.

So he shrugged casually and said, “How about we float those wish boats? Like I said we would,”

I blinked, obviously surprised–like I’d expected him to suggest something else.

But I nodded and answered quietly, “Okay.”

Vincent threaded his fingers through mine and pulled me into the crowd, navigating through the masses until the river appeared.

There, a worn wooden booth sat under a canvas cover, its shelves packed with parchment, feathers, and a variety of painted paper boats

-edges worn, but vibrant with reds and golds, like they’d been soaked in twilight.

Up front, a handwritten sign declared: [Write your wish, float the boat, and legend says the ancient river spirits will carry it away to

make it real.]

The booth owner, a weathered man with an ink stain on his cheek, brightened when he saw Vincent and me approaching. He pushed

himself up from his stool, wiping his hands on his apron, and called out, “Good evening, folks. Want to try your luck with a wish boat?”

Vincent nodded, his eyes moving to the boats floating in a bucket near the counter. “We’ll need some parchment, feathers, and two of

your largest boats.”

The owner’s face split into a smile, “You got it.” He rummaged through his supplies while stating the price. “Fifty dollars will cover it.”

Vincent pulled out his wallet, found a bill, and after the owner pocketed it, he handed over the boats–solid things, their parchment

reinforced with string–and the writing materials.

I took the parchment and feather, turning it around in my hands. “So we just… write our wishes on this?”

“Exactly” Vincent said, already opening the ink bottle. “Whatever’s weighing on you–the river spirits will make it happen.”

Hlet out a sharp laugh, something bitter in it. “River spirits. Right. That’s just a story we tell ourselves to feel less powerless, isn’t it?”

Vincent stopped, the feather hanging over the parchment as he looked at me. I had my head down, a few loose strands of hair falling

gently across my face, my entire body language quiet, almost fragile.

I gripped the feather tightly, my eyes drifting to the river, where the current pulled at the reeds–clearly lost in my own thoughts.

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Vincent could see I was somewhere else entirely, so he let out a quiet chuckle and murmured, “Can’t I do a decent job of being your

spirit, then?

His voice was so gentle the breeze almost carried it away; I didn’t even react.

But whether I’d heard or not didn’t matter–not to Vincent.

I could see something shift in his expression as he dipped the feather into the ink, and I imagined he was thinking that whatever it

required, he’d make sure my wishes didn’t need a river to become reality.

Thinking about that, a smile spread across his face.

He bent his head and began writing his wish on the parchment.

I leaned over, curious to see what he was scribbling, but Vincent covered it with his hand. “Legend says, if someone else reads your wish,

the river spirits won’t grant it.”

His comment made me laugh, and I just rolled my shoulders, saying, “Can’t believe you’re still acting like a kid at your age!”

Vincent made a pouty face and looked at me, grumbling, “That’s my choice.”

I moved my parchment away from him. “Then I’m not letting you see mine, either.”

Vincent tried to peek, but I shifted positions so he really couldn’t see what I was writing.

But none of that mattered. What mattered was that I was willing to write.

Vincent returned to scribbling his wish on the parchment.

He finished writing his wish, though I couldn’t see what it was, and carefully folded the parchment and placed it inside the boat.

Meanwhile, I had finished writing my wish and had just finished preparing my boat when Vincent glanced over at me.

When our eyes met, I said, “I’m finished.”

Vincent smiled and suggested, “Want to release them together?”

I nodded and said, “Sure.”

I grabbed my boat, walked to the river with Vincent, and set it on the water.

The moment the boat hit the surface, it started drifting gently downstream.

Meanwhile, I clasped my hands loosely under my chin, my eyes gentle as I whispered a quiet wish to myself. “I guess I’ll just hope all the

things I’m too afraid to say out loud find their way somehow.”

Watching me make my wish so seriously, Vincent couldn’t help but get a little captivated.

But he snapped out of it, quickly typing something on his phone before putting it away.

After I finished my silent wishing, I opened my eyes.

I turned to Vincent and asked, “So, what’s next?”

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Vincent was about to respond when he spotted something that made his smile vanish completely.

I saw Vincent’s expression suddenly darken. I asked, confused, “What’s wrong?”

From the way he looked at me, I sensed he had noticed something I hadn’t yet.

A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. He suddenly grabbed my hand, pressing it firmly against his chest, and let his face contort into

an exaggerated grimace. “Blanche, come on, my chest feels tight. Like something’s lodged right here.”

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