My fiancé, Dylan Ross, stood just beyond the half open door to a small office near the hall. He did not know I was there. His voice carried clearly, sharp and impatient.
“I told you, I do not care about her feelings,” he said. “Once the vows are done, her assets become shared. That is all that matters.”
A second voice answered. His mother, Cynthia Ross. Smooth. Cold. Confident.
“You are thinking correctly. Her family company is worth millions. Once you are married, everything ties to you. Just keep her emotional. She listens when she thinks you love her.”
My lungs forgot how to work. My hand gripped the wall. A wave of nausea rolled through me. I did not cry. Shock froze the tears inside me.
For three years I believed Dylan loved me. He brought flowers. He opened doors. He praised my ambition as adorable. I thought his teasing about my family wealth was harmless humor. I thought his insistence that I let him handle financial planning was generosity. Now every memory rearranged itself into a different picture.
