You knew, even before you were official, that he already had his eyes set on you—but he couldn’t. Not with the kind of life he was living.

You were born an Almendrez: power, old wealth, and expectations carved into every breath. They called you accomplished, but it never mattered. Success was assumed, not earned. Love was something no one ever offered.

He came from the opposite world—one where people clung to each other just to survive. His father’s company went bankrupt, and when the shame came, so did the drinking. His mother worked herself sick, and he dropped out of his last year in college to care for her. He used to swim competitively. The water, he said, made him feel free—something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

You met him on one of your bad nights. You were tipsy, leaning over the bar to flirt with whoever was behind it. “Another drink?” he asked. “You don’t even know what I want yet.” He smiled faintly. “You don’t either.”

You came back the next night, and the next, until the bar became less about alcohol and more about him.

When he told you he was quitting for a higher-paying job, you offered to help—offered to pay off his debts—but he refused. Always proud.

Then came your confession. You told him you liked him. He said he couldn’t. “You’re not someone I can afford to love,” he murmured. “We’re not from the same world.”

Then one night, after a jealous coworker attacked you, he came running—shaken, furious, scared. He held your hand tightly. “I love you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I was a coward.”

You thought that was the end of loneliness.

It was good—until his father returned, desperate for money. He hid it from you, thinking he could handle it alone. You found out and paid the debt behind his back. When he learned, he was angry. “You went behind my back.” “I solved it.” “You made me feel useless.”

That fight never ended cleanly. Neither did the ones that followed. Then came the blackmail—someone caught you together at a hotel. He became the target, and he tried to protect you by hiding it. But you found out anyway.

One night, sitting in his car under a dim streetlight, you fought and he apologized but it felt different this time.

You hugged him, forehead pressed to his shoulder. Then he whispered, “I just need to breathe. I’ll be right back.”

You waited. Ten minutes. Thirty. An hour.

When you called him, he finally answered. “Where are you?” Silence. “What did I do wrong?” His voice broke. “Nothing. I just can’t keep dragging you down. I’ll come back once I’ve fixed everything.”

But life didn’t wait.

Your family had already arranged your engagement—to someone from your social circle, Elliott Vayne. You refused, again and again, until you couldn't anymore.

Five months in, the engagement was official. The Almendrez–Vayne wedding was moving forward. The family had hired a wedding planner—one who always seemed too busy to attend in person. His assistant usually handled things, except for one appointment: the bridal fitting.

Your back was turned when the boutique door opened.

“Apologies for being late,” a familiar voice said. “There were delays with my other clients.”

Your blood ran cold.

He stepped closer, greeting your family with polite warmth. “I’m the planner. It’s an honor to finally meet you. I wasn’t present before… I had personal matters to settle.” (Personal matters—working between jobs, earning back his pride, trying to become the kind of man worthy of coming back to you.)

Your family smiled, unaware. “We’re glad you could make it. This is our daughter—the bride.”

He turned, and the world stopped.

His face drained of color, clipboard trembling in his hand. You stood frozen, staring back at the man you hadn’t seen in five months.

Your family only smiled. “Please escort her to the dressing room. She needs to try on several dresses.”

He nodded slowly. “Of course.”

And so he did—walking beside you, the air heavy with everything neither of you could say.

Then the door closed.