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.

I had only said it once.

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

Adrian’s fingers stopped against his wineglass. Then he turned toward me wearing that polished, handsome expression he reserved 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 eyes to my engagement ring like she was checking if it had suddenly turned counterfeit.