We were supposed to get married in 6 months. The invitations were already ordered. My dress was hanging in my closet wrapped in protective plastic. I was exhausted, my eyes burning from staring at spreadsheets for 12 hours straight. I reached for my phone to set an alarm and saw James’ laptop sitting on the coffee table. He’d left it here yesterday.
The screen was still on, just dimmed. I wasn’t snooping. I wasn’t the kind of person who went through their partner’s things, but the email notification at the top of his screen caught my eye because the sender’s name was my father’s. My hand moved before my brain could stop it. Subject line re our arrangement. I clicked it open.
My father’s words burned into my retinas. James, I’ve transferred the remaining $25,000 to your account as we discussed. That brings the total to $50,000 as agreed. I know this isn’t easy, but Mia can give you the life Sarah simply can’t. Her family’s connections in the marketing world will advance your career faster than my daughter ever could.
Mia’s trust fund alone is worth more than Sarah will make in her lifetime. You’re making the smart choice. When you break the engagement, keep it clean. Don’t mention our conversations. Sarah doesn’t need to know about this. She’ll move on eventually. She always does what’s practical. James’s response sent just 3 hours ago. I understand, Mr.
Richardson. I care about Sarah, but you’re right about the opportunities with Mia. I’ll end things this weekend. Thank you for helping me see clearly. The money will help me start fresh. I read it three times, then four, then I lost count. My father, my own father had paid my fiance to dump me for my cousin.
Mia, beautiful, bubbly Mia with her lifestyle Instagram and her trust fund and her family’s marketing empire. We’d grown up together, celebrated birthdays together, shared secrets as teenagers. She was at every family holiday, every reunion. She was supposed to be my bridesmaid. The room tilted. I gripped the edge of the couch trying to breathe through the vice crushing my chest.
Four years. Four years of building a life with James. Four years of compromise and planning and dreaming about our future. Four years of introducing him to my family. Of Sunday dinners at my parents house where my father would pat James on the back and call him son. All of it was a transaction.
All of it had a price tag. I sat there in the dark of my apartment. My laptop forgotten, the quarterly report abandoned, the numbers on my screen blurred into meaningless shapes. I’d spent my whole life being good with numbers, being practical, being responsible. My father had always praised those qualities. Apparently, they weren’t worth $50,000.
