He Loves My Second Personality

On the Valentine's Day, the South City sunlight was particularly blinding. I stood beside a bench in City Park, watching the approaching car in the distance, my breath caught in my throat. That was no ordinary car, but a truck with a bunch of huge flowers. Beyond the 4-meter-long, 3-meter-diameter red roses, 99,999 Champagne roses were arranged to spell out a message. "Wendy Scott, I love you, until death do us part!" I stared at that last name "Scott", my fingertips digging into my palm. My name is Wendy Lincoln, not Wendy Scott. Eric Shawn walked over, a faint scent of rose clinging to him. Noticing my pallor, he asked tentatively, "Wendy?" The faces of his friends around him instantly paled. I knew what they feared. Cindy Scott, Eric Shawn's dream girl, hidden away his entire life, also has "Scott" in her name, yet he unconsciously calls me "Wendy". The surrounding crowd erupted in cheers, raising their phones to capture the moment. "This is far too romantic!" "Mr. Shawn is exceptionally kind to his wife!" Such praise pierced my heart like needles. My gaze fixed upon Eric Shawn, my countenance growing ever more somber. He plainly did not anticipate such a reaction; his smile faltered and froze. "Wendy, what troubles you? Do you not find favor in this?" He reached to take my hand, but I recoiled instinctively. His hand remained suspended, a fleeting hint of impatience betraying his eyes. Andrew Luke, his childhood friend, swiftly moved to defuse the situation, patting Eric Shawn's shoulder: "Eric, what's wrong with you? You got the wrong name." Several others chimed in agreement. "Don't be mad. Eric prepared this surprise for half a month; a specialist arranged this very bouquet." "Surely, it must be the specialist's mistake." They clamored, each attempting to excuse Eric Shawn. I remained silent, desiring only to turn and flee. This "mistake" stems not from any advertising agency. Cindy Scott's name has ever been a thorn in Eric Shawn's heart, and my own undoing. Eric Shawn seized my wrist, his grip so forceful it throbbed with pain. "Wendy Lincoln, stop; grant me some dignity!" His voice, a low murmur, carried an undercurrent of threat. I lifted my gaze to his, brimming with wounded pride: "I am unwell." "Unwell?" He offered a derisive snort. "Wendy Lincoln, do not lie." "It's just a mistaken name. Do not show such ingratitude." Those final words pierced my heart like shards of ice. I regarded him and gave a sudden, hollow laugh: "Merely a mistaken name?" "Eric Shawn, it wasn't just a single word you mistook, was it?" "This bouquet was meant for Cindy Scott, wasn't it?" His face turned ashen instantly. "Had she been here, she would have been deeply moved, wouldn't she?" "You grew up together; she would never be so 'ungrateful' as I am." "Perhaps I should be more discerning and quit this title of Mrs. Shawn, presenting it to her with open hands?" These words, long suppressed within me, caused my voice to tremble as I finally spoke them.