My fiancé said, “Don’t call me your future husband.” I nodded. That night, I quietly removed my name from every guest list he’d made. Two days later, he walked into lunch and froze at what waited on his chair.

“My future husband hates olives,” I told the waiter with a smile, gently sliding the little dish away from Adrian’s plate.

Adrian’s fingers stopped against his wineglass.

Then he turned toward me with that polished, handsome expression he used for investors, cameras, and women he wanted to charm.

“Don’t call me your future husband.”

He said it gently.

That somehow made it crueler.

Across the table, his sister Camille smirked. His mother, Vivienne, lowered her gaze to my engagement ring as if checking whether it had suddenly turned fake.

I blinked once.