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.

“Excuse me?”

Adrian leaned back in his chair.

“We’re engaged, Mara. Not married. Don’t make it sound so… permanent.”

Vivienne released a delicate sigh.

“Men need space to breathe, darling.”

Camille lifted her champagne flute.

“Especially when they’re marrying above themselves.”

Heat climbed my throat, but my hands stayed folded neatly in my lap. I had learned composure in boardrooms full of men who mistook silence for weakness.

Adrian reached over and patted my wrist like I was something badly trained but still useful.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he said. “You know I care about you.”

Care.