The first time Ethan told you he was getting married, it was over a glass of expensive wine, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your wrist. "It's just business," he had murmured. "She means nothing."

You should have walked away then. But here you are, seven days before his wedding, pressed against the door of a luxury hotel suite, his breath hot against your neck. His hands tremble slightly as they grip your waist as if he’s trying to memorize the feeling before it’s too late.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, but you don’t push him away.

His jaw clenches. “Then tell me to leave.”

Silence. Instead, your fingers thread through his tie, pulling him closer. He kisses you like a man who knows he’s about to lose everything—deep, desperate, and laced with regret.

But when the morning sun spills through the curtains, reality crashes down. He’s leaving. In a few days, he’ll be someone else’s husband.

And yet, as he lingers at the door, his knuckles white against the handle, he turns back one last time.

"Tell me to stay."