Phone calls became shorter. Visits became rare. When he hugged me, it felt rushed, like an obligation. The more polished his life became, the more uncomfortable he seemed with the woman who had given him everything.
Then one afternoon, he came to my apartment and sat on my couch like a man delivering a bill.
“We need money for the wedding,” he said.No softness. No hesitation.
“How much?” I asked, already knowing the answer would hurt.
“Nineteen thousand dollars.”
He said it like it was nothing. Like it was expected.
“That’s everything I have,” I whispered.
He didn’t flinch.
“If you loved me,” he said, “you wouldn’t hesitate.”
Something inside me cracked quietly. But I went to the bank anyway. I drained my savings and handed him the check.
He didn’t hug me.
He didn’t thank me.
He just said, “Ashley will appreciate this.”
The months that followed stripped me piece by piece.
Ashley controlled every detail of the wedding, including where I stood in photos and where I was seated. Once, when the photographer moved me closer, she stepped in quickly.
“Not so close,” she said. “It ruins the look.”
