Proposal

“We need to talk.”

He stood in front of me, voice disturbingly calm—like he was announcing the fridge had broken, not that I had thrown him onto a bed the night before.

Talk?

My brain instantly began filtering keywords. Talk about what? A debrief? A review? Or was he proposing some sort of… “long-term sexual partnership”?

Definitely not a proposal. That only happens in soap operas written by people with chronic romance brain.

Was he worried I’d cling to him?

After all—it was me who started this.

I was the one who dragged him out of the bar.

I was the one who opened the hotel door.

I was the one who pinned him down without a second thought.

“Look,” I said, adopting the most adult, accountable tone I could muster, “last night was a mistake. A reckless, impulsive, but… undeniably enjoyable mistake.”

I tried not to look at his shoulders. Not at his chest. Not at the water droplets sliding down his clavicle, tracing the path over sculpted muscle.

“I’m not going to ask you to take responsibility. I won’t call you crying about emotional trauma. I’m not that kind of girl.”

He didn’t say anything.

Seeing no reaction, I turned to the door—cue graceful exit, complete with closure monologue.

But just as my hand reached the doorknob, a warm, wet palm landed on the back of mine.

I froze. Slowly turned around.

He was looking at me with an expression I couldn’t place—somewhere between surprise and… seriousness.

“You don’t remember me?” he asked softly.

I blinked, thrown. I answered quickly, almost defensive: “Of course I do. You’re my new neighbor. Helped me find my keys the other night.”

Technically true. Totally accurate.

What I didn’t say—and never would—was that even without those trivial interactions, I remembered him.

That face was unforgettable.

Or, to be more precise, that face, standing in front of me in just a white towel, with water dripping down those abs… yeah. Not something easily erased from memory.

I swallowed hard.

The trick was: don’t look directly at him. Like an eclipse.

Too bad that strategy had completely failed.

Worse still, even though I was fully dressed and he was practically naked, somehow under his gaze, I felt like the one completely exposed.

I tried to speak—say something, anything to shift the attention.

But he didn’t ask again. He just stood there, watching me, as if waiting for the moment my real reaction would finally arrive.

The silence stretched.

Then he said, “It’s fine. Doesn’t matter.”

I blinked. What?

“Can I go now?” I asked, my voice dry. His hand still hadn’t moved.

He looked at me again, then—unhurriedly—said:

“Will you marry me?”

…

WTF?!

“You’re not serious.” I finally found my voice.

“I’m completely serious,” he replied, like he was announcing a quarterly investment plan. “I just returned to the country. My parents want me to get married as soon as possible. In their eyes, a married man means stability. And only a stable man can inherit the family business.”

I fell silent.

Two days ago, I swore I’d bring home someone better than Rhys.

Someone impressive enough to shut my parents up.

And now, the universe had delivered an answer—just with a thick layer of irony.

But I knew.

Marriage shouldn’t be like this.

I’d already lived through a love-less engagement once.

What it left behind was a house full of silence, intimacy that felt hollow, and a slow, brutal erosion of my self-respect.

I opened my mouth to say no.

But at that moment, my phone rang.

The sharp ringtone sliced through the quiet like a knife.

I glanced at the screen—and felt like a bomb had gone off in my chest.

Caroline Vance.

My mother.

Katherine was back.

She must’ve called to announce the beginning of something.

I looked at that face—familiar yet foreign—then back down at my phone.

And finally, I said the words:

“I can’t accept.”

I walked out of the hotel suite, the ringtone still shrieking behind me.

I answered not because I wanted to, but because I needed—desperately—to sever this umbilical cord that kept dragging me back into the past.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone? Were you trying to give me a stroke?”

My mother’s voice came rapid-fire, like a machine gun.

“I thought you were dead in a ditch or kidnapped by some maniac! Get home. Now. We need to talk.”

“I’m already on my way,” I said coldly, and hung up before she could launch into round two.

I gave the driver my parents’ address and collapsed into the backseat, like someone bracing for a colonoscopy without anesthesia.

Okay. Let’s get this over with.

My neighbor—aka my one-night stand—was probably insane.

But while I still had a drop of alcohol-induced courage left in my bloodstream—while the old Mira, desperate for love, hadn’t crawled back in and taken over—I had to move fast.

I had to throw this shattered mess back in their perfect little faces.

The Vance family estate sat in the kind of suburban enclave that didn’t welcome anyone who couldn’t afford a BMW. No subway stops. No bus routes. Just an elegantly phrased “keep out, poor people.”

At the wrought-iron gate, I inhaled deeply. I felt like a boxer walking into the ring. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted. Emotional armor locked and loaded.

The moment I stepped into the living room, I could smell the ambush.

My father—Franklin Vance—sat alone in his leather chair, wearing the same expression he probably used to fire underperforming hedge fund managers.

Beside him, my mother, Caroline, with her flawless hair and perfectly aligned pearl necklace, smiled the way a doctor does when saying, “The cancer’s spread.”

To their left, Rhys sat on the sofa, all solemn and brooding, as if waiting for a divorce lawyer to direct his next pose.

And on the right?

Katherine, obviously.

All we were missing was a gavel and a court reporter.

This was a trial.

I was the defendant.

And the verdict had already been written.

Mother struck first.

“What took you so long? I called you hours ago.”

She crossed her arms, her tone colder than the AC.

“Traffic,” I lied.

If I told them I’d just escaped from a man in a towel, they’d have me institutionalized.

“So? Why am I here?” My tone was sharp, iced over.

No one answered.

Not until Rhys stood, bandage still across his forehead.

The sight of him looking vaguely wounded brought me the tiniest flicker of grim satisfaction.

“You left this at my place,” he said slowly, holding something in his hand.

“Your bear alarm clock.”

I stared at it.

A cheap, scuffed electronic clock shaped like a cartoon bear, its plastic face scratched and faded from over a decade of use.

And now, this relic was their opening move?

Rage crawled up my throat, but I forced it down.

“Thanks,” I said flatly. “That’s… thoughtful.”

I snatched the ridiculous little clock and turned to leave.

Come on. No one calls a full-blown family meeting just to return a damn alarm clock. I knew better. This was about humiliation. About putting me in my place.

They were the real family.

I was always the outsider—invited in only when they needed a benchwarmer.

“Wait,” my mother said, her voice even colder than before.

I paused. Didn’t turn around.

She folded her arms again and smiled—that tight, poisonous kind of smile you only see when a doctor says “Stage four.”

“Now that Katherine’s back,” she said, “and since you and Rhys have broken up, we believe it’s time—he and Katherine should be engaged.”

I gave a short, humorless laugh. Turned around slowly, letting the sarcasm drip from my mouth.

“By all means. Plan whatever you want. Not like you’ve ever asked for my opinion before.”

“We used to ask,” she said, voice turning sharp, “back when you were still the sensible daughter. The one with potential.”

She stepped closer.

“You’re too emotional, Mira. Your insecurity made you paranoid—accusing Rhys, trying to control him. You didn’t trust him, and that’s what destroyed the relationship.”

Her words were blades.

Featherlight in tone.

Ruthless in effect.

“So this is on you.

And you’ll make that clear in the press.

Tell them you fell for someone else.

That’s why you ended the engagement.”

I froze.

Something tore inside my chest—like they’d ripped it open with their bare hands.

I looked at them, all of them—my parents, Rhys, Katherine.

So calm. So calculated.

Like a script they'd rehearsed for weeks.

What had I done to deserve this?

Where had I gone so wrong?

I was ready to explode. To storm out.

But that’s when my father finally stood.

Like a judge preparing to read the sentence.

“You don’t have to worry about finding someone new,” he said with absolute finality.

“We’ve already made arrangements—”

Family Showdown

I don’t even remember how I got out of that house.

All I had was one single, sharp conclusion echoing through my head—

I must not be their daughter.

And I had to find out the truth.

It was the only explanation I could cling to—because otherwise, how could I live with the idea that my own parents were capable of being this cruel?

The moment I got back to my apartment, I collapsed into bed. I didn’t move until my phone started ringing.

It was Ivanna.

I didn’t wait for her to ask anything—I just blurted out everything my parents had done.

And, yes… I also told her about the one-night stand.

I left out the proposal.

Ivanna let out a scream so high-pitched it could probably shatter glass and murder all the plants in my apartment.

“You had a one-night stand?! And you didn’t FaceTime me live from the scene?!”

I switched the phone to speaker and tossed it onto the couch, slumping back into the cushions with my eyes closed.

Her voice kept going like fireworks:

“Who is he? What mythological realm did this man descend from? Are you telling me you actually, finally, let Rhys go? Don’t tell me—he looks like Michelangelo carved him, or…”

She paused. I could picture her sitting up on her sofa, wrapped in a blanket, making that infamous, exaggerated gesture.

“A wand of unnatural proportions?”

“You are—so. Incredibly. Annoying,” I groaned, dragging a pillow over my face.

“You’re dodging the topic,” she snapped back instantly.

Yes.

Yes, I was.

I never hid things from Ivanna. Not even the ugliest parts of my story.

Not even… last night.

I slept with a man whose last name I couldn’t remember.

Just to peel Rhys’s residue off my skin—for a minute, an hour, a night—whatever it took to feel free again.

Was it liberating?

No.

It was revenge, escape, a cocktail of both with a guilt chaser.

But Ivanna wasn’t here to judge me.

She was here to douse the flames—even if it was only through the tiny speaker in my living room.

“At least tell me this,” she said suddenly, her voice lowering, softer. “Was he hot? Like, close-your-eyes-and-you-can-still-see-his-brow-bone hot?”

“…Hot,” I muttered into the pillow.

“And when he touched you… did it feel like he knew you were something rare? Like you were a limited edition made just for him?”

I clenched my jaw. Didn’t answer.

“Oh my god,” she breathed.

“You actually slept with someone who was worth it.”

I kept my eyes closed, and for some reason, that one sentence felt like a suture pulled gently over the tear in my chest.

My parents’ voices still echoed in my head—sharp, suffocating, like burnt toast you couldn’t scrape off.

The way they’d discarded me—so clinical, so composed. Like tossing out a baby bottle that had outlived its use.

“Mira,” her voice shifted again, quieter, steadier. “You can do anything. Screw up, break down, love the wrong person—it’s all fine. But you can’t carry all of this alone anymore.”

I said nothing.

Just pulled my knees to my chest and pressed my face into them.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “Wherever you go. Whatever you do. I’m here.”

I didn’t cry.

I swear I didn’t.

I just clenched my jaw, shut my eyes tighter, and swallowed the words thank you like a pill I couldn’t quite get down.

I glanced at the time.

I had to go to work.

Now that my parents had made it clear I was disposable, my job was the one thing I couldn’t afford to screw up.

Of course, they believed I worked as a barista.

They’d forbidden me from having a corporate job.

In their minds, once married, I should be home full-time—a perfect little housewife.

So I never told them what I really did.

Dragging my exhausted body out the door, I headed to Ground & Pound—my workplace.

The name? Chosen because the owner figured it had no real brand potential. Was it a sexy coffee shop? An underground MMA gym? Who knew? Who cared?

But it was decent.

Stable.

And for now—safe.

Well… until it no longer existed.

“Mira.”

My boss, Benny, greeted me like I was his parole officer—nervous, sweaty, probably two seconds away from peeing his pants.

He was in his forties, wore a man bun that did no favors for his hairline, and his arms were covered in tattoos best described as regrettable—one of which included a goat wearing sunglasses.

“You don’t need to be here today. I was just about to call you…” He stared at the floor. “You’re not on the schedule anymore.”

Excuse me?

“You’ve been… let go. I’m really sorry. I didn’t want to, but… I got a call. From your mom.”

My stomach dropped.

“She threatened to report us, said she’d have our license revoked if I didn’t fire you.” Benny kept staring at the floor. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t do anything.”

“She runs a luxury skincare company, Benny. Not the goddamn FBI.”

He shrugged helplessly. “She said she’d report us for health code violations. And you know she’s got connections. She could actually pull it off.”

I took a deep breath. Yelling at Benny wouldn’t do anything. This wasn’t his fault.

Before I did something stupid—like hurl a milk jug out the window—I stormed out.

I didn’t hate that job. Being a barista was just a side hustle.

What really paid the bills—what no one knew except Ivanna—was my jewelry design.

Ever since I was a kid, my mom had told me I was average. Ordinary. Talentless. Every time I tried to shine, she dragged me back into her shadow.

Eventually, I learned to obey. I buried my ambition, wore gray feathers like a peacock pretending to be a pigeon.

So no, I didn’t care about losing the coffee shop job.

What infuriated me wasn’t unemployment. It was that this—this power move—was her.

Her fingerprints were all over it.

It was her punishment. A response to me trying to escape Rhys. Trying to escape her.

She was sending me a message:

You don’t get to walk away.

I can destroy any scrap of pride you think you’ve earned—with one finger.

If she thought I’d come crawling back, like I used to, begging for her approval…

She could go to hell.

I wasn’t her puppet anymore.

I was done playing the good girl.

Thirty minutes later, I shoved open the front door of the Vance estate.

No knocking. I didn’t care.

I had come ready to start round two of our family war.

What I found instead was something far worse.

My parents were sitting on the ivory couch in the living room, sipping wine worth more than my rent, laughing—laughing—with a man I didn’t recognize.

The scene was picturesque. Like they’d stepped right out of How to Host the Perfect Suburban Power Dinner.

The man looked like a slimy, watered-down version of a 1950s mogul—maybe one who’d spent time in white-collar prison and came out with a tailor.

Custom suit. Shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, revealing a patch of chest hair that looked like someone had just trimmed a Christmas wreath.

His teeth were too white, his smile too polished—like greed dipped in varnish.

“Darling,” my mother cooed, sweet as syrup, “come meet Mr. Leonard Shaw, CEO of Alcott Shipping. A true self-made man. There’s so much you could learn from him—about turning raw talent into real success.”

It hit like a scented hammer to the face.

Leonard grinned ear to ear. His eyes—no, his eyes went straight under my skirt.

“Lovely to meet you, Miss Vance,” he said. “I do hope we get to talk more. I always enjoy mentoring young women. Especially smart, beautiful ones like yourself.”

I didn’t bother hiding my expression.

It wasn’t disgust. It was nausea.

He was practically licking his lips.

I could hear the soundtrack of Indecent Proposal playing in his head.

“Mira,” my mother warned in that sugar-coated threat tone, “don’t be rude. Shake Mr. Shaw’s hand.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t even blink.

If someone had thrown a raccoon at me in that moment, I’d have hugged it over touching Leonard’s hand.

Caroline’s laugh rang out, high and brittle, like she was trying to cover up my resistance.

“Young people are so sensitive these days, aren’t they?” she said to Leonard, with the practiced tone of someone saying she’ll come around.

Leonard just waved it off. “I like a girl with a little fire.”

Yeah, and I like dentists who don’t need pliers. We can’t all get what we want.

And my father—the same man who, just days ago, told me “we’ll take care of everything”—was now nodding at Leonard like a hotel concierge hoping for a good tip.

That’s when I understood.

This wasn’t an introduction.

It was a presentation.

I was the product on display tonight.

This wasn’t about meeting a “promising single man.”

This was a sale. I was being marketed like a financial package with a bonus gift.

When Leonard finally left—leaving behind a cloud of cologne and a trail of sleaze—I turned to face them.

“What the hell was that?”

My mother raised her wine glass, took a slow, triumphant sip.

“That,” she said with a smile, “was your future husband.”