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.

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.

I blinked once. “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.”