One day before the wedding, my fiancé laid a neat stack of documents on my kitchen table and said, ‘Add my name to your apartment, or there won’t be a wedding.’ For a second, I thought it had to be some awful, badly timed joke. Then I looked at his face and understood he had not spent the past few months preparing to become my husband. He had been preparing a move. So I let him believe I was willing to listen, smiled just enough to keep him comfortable, and waited for the moment when every plan he had hidden would finally come into the light.

I pulled my hands out of his. “After we’re married, we can talk about how to structure joint assets,” I said.

“We can talk to a lawyer, talk about a prenup if we need to, make sure it’s fair and clear—”

“No prenup.”

He said it so sharply that I stopped. The warmth in his expression flickered. Just for a second, but enough.

It was like seeing a light switch off behind someone’s face. “No prenup,” he repeated. “Prenups are for people planning to fail.

This isn’t about that. This is about security. My security.”

I stared at him.

“Your security? You live here. You are secure.”

He leaned forward.