Victor never actually asked me what I wanted.
Instead, he explained what my future should look like.
“You’ll love the house once the renovations are finished.”
“We’ll spend Christmas in Switzerland.”
“My assistant already found the perfect architect.”
“I’ve reserved a table for us next Friday.”
Every conversation sounded less like a partnership and more like a business presentation.
Sometimes I wondered whether he even noticed that I had opinions.
Or whether I had simply become another investment in the life he was carefully constructing.
About a month before my wedding, there was a knock on my apartment door.
I already knew who it was.
Victor never texted before arriving.
He expected doors to open for him.
When I answered, he stood there holding an enormous bouquet of white lilies.
In his other hand rested a small velvet jewelry box.
“I was hoping you’d give me five minutes.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“It’ll be the last time.”
Against my better judgment, I stepped aside.
He walked in as comfortably as if he still lived there.
Without saying another word, he placed the flowers on my kitchen counter and opened the velvet box.
A diamond bracelet caught the afternoon sunlight.
Tiny stones sparkled like frozen stars.
“I bought this yesterday,” he said.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It could be yours.”
I looked at the bracelet.
Then I looked at him.
“I don’t want it.”
His confident smile barely moved.
“You haven’t heard my offer.”
“I don’t need to.”
He took another step.
“Amelia.”
“I can still give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”
His words lingered between us.
For a long moment I simply stared at him.
Then I quietly asked,
“Do you even know what I’ve dreamed of?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Excuse me?”
“You keep talking about everything I’ve ever wanted.”
I folded my arms.
“But you’ve never once asked what that actually is.”
His smile stiffened.
“You’re being emotional.”
“No.”
“I’m finally being honest.”
He sighed as though speaking to a stubborn child.
“You’re about to marry a man who spends his days fixing fences.”
“And?”
“You’ll get tired of it.”
I said nothing.
“You’ll get tired of muddy boots sitting by the front door.”
Silence.
“You’ll get tired of repairing tractors instead of flying first class.”
Still nothing.
“You’ll get tired of budgeting groceries.”
I finally interrupted.
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