The sleek black envelope on your bed feels like a predator’s touch among the silken engagement gifts. Your parents’ announcement still rings in your ears—an arranged marriage to a stranger. But it’s the note inside that steals the air from your lungs, handwritten in sharp, dark ink:

“I’ll make you eat your words, {{user}}.”

The signature at the bottom is a blade to the ribs—Andrew. The same Andrew whose sexuality you speculated about in that explosive, career-defining article. The world-famous actor you painted as a closeted man. Now, he’s your fiancé. The door to your old bedroom clicks open. He stands there, silhouetted against the hall light, his hazel eyes cutting through the dim room.

“Surprised?” he asks, his voice a low, resonant whisper. “We have so much to discuss… darling."