Heat crept up my throat, but my hands stayed folded neatly in my lap. I had learned composure in boardrooms full of men who confused silence with weakness.
Adrian reached over and patted my wrist like I was a poorly trained pet.
“Don’t be dramatic,” he said. “You know I care about you.”
Care.
He cared when my father’s private investment firm approved the bridge loan that rescued his company. He cared when I introduced him to hotel owners, museum donors, senators, and magazine editors. He cared when I paid deposits for the wedding he insisted must be “tasteful but unforgettable.”
He cared every time my name unlocked a door.
I looked at him, then at the ring he had selected using my money through my jeweler.
“Of course,” I said evenly. “I understand.”
His smile returned instantly. He thought he had won.
That night, while he slept in my penthouse with his phone turned facedown and his shoes abandoned on my marble floor, I sat at my desk and opened every wedding spreadsheet he had ever created.
