The Wedding That Never Happened
When I met Daniel, he was juggling a pastry bag, his phone, and his wallet, clearly trying to ruin his day. His credit cards were strewn across the floor of a small café on the outskirts of Brighton Hill. I knelt down to help him.
“Thanks,” he said, blushing. “I promise I’m not usually this messy.”

I smiled. “Okay. Chaos loves good company.”
It was a start. A rough start.
Evan was polite. Too polite. Every word seemed rehearsed, every look reserved. He called me “ma’am” and stuck to the answer “yes” or “no.” A veritable fortress, reinforced by good manners.
Daniel said, “I just need time.”
So I waited. I came. I tried.
On a rainy November evening, Daniel proposed to me in the same restaurant where we’d laughed so loudly over crème brûlée. He was nervous and had tears in his eyes. I said yes.
When we told Evan, he whispered, “Congratulations,” but I took that as progress.
It wasn’t.

The morning changed everything.
The wedding day was cold and bright. My dress gleamed. The garden was full of white ribbons and roses. But something inside me was strange: tense, restless.
Suddenly, someone knocked. It wasn’t my maid of honor, but Evan, serious and in an oversized suit.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
We stepped out onto the quiet terrace.
“Don’t marry my father.”