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.

Vivienne frowned sharply.

“No. My son sits at the head.”

“Not today, Mrs. Vale.”

Camille laughed lightly.

“Do you even know who we are?”

The maître d’ smiled politely.

“Yes.”

That answer unsettled her.

When Adrian finally walked in, he was speaking loudly into his phone.

“No, the wedding is fine. Mara gets emotional, but she always comes back around.”

Then he saw me.

I sat beneath my grandmother’s portrait, calm as winter.

His smile twitched.

“Mara,” he said too brightly. “There you are.”