Jonathan glanced at my handbag and the white shopping bag in my hand, his gaze lingering. "I saw a small pink box earlier," he said. "What was that?"

"You must have been mistaken," I replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear as I searched for a way to decline his sudden push for the marriage license.

Before I could form a response, his phone rang sharply, the caller ID flashing through the car's speaker.

It was Chloe, her voice tight with panic. "Uncle Jon, I think someone's following me!"

Jonathan's entire demeanor shifted to alert. "Don't be scared, Chloe. Tell me where you are. I'm on my way."

Watching the stark concern flood his eyes, I was thrown back to the time of Chloe's suicide attempt. It happened after she learned of my engagement to Jonathan. She had confessed her feelings to him, been gently rebuffed, and reacted with desperate measures.

Consumed by guilt, and with our wedding date already set, Jonathan had redoubled his efforts to care for her. He had insisted I be available to answer her calls at all hours, a safeguard against any further crises.

Once, when I was in a meeting and missed her call—and Jonathan was unreachable on a flight—she had made another attempt. That was the incident that led to him blocking me and taking Chloe to that secluded retreat, leaving our wedding plans in complete disarray.

Jonathan had always prioritized soothing her pain, even if it meant orchestrating my own unhappiness. Was this the "compassion" he so often preached? It seemed his brand of mercy was simply the unshakable belief that I would never leave—that I couldn't survive without him.

But this time, I wouldn't be held captive by that belief.

The driver sped to the location. We found Chloe crouched by the roadside, a picture of vulnerable distress—yet there was no one else in sight.

The moment she saw Jonathan, she flew into his arms. The triumphant glint in her eye, quickly hidden, betrayed her. This was deliberate. She must have known he and I were on our way to the courthouse and had staged this to intervene.

I almost laughed at the absurdity. If only she knew I was preparing to marry someone else, she would likely feel the fool herself.

Clutching him, Chloe whimpered about her fright while he soothed her and helped her into the car. As he turned back, his eyes finally found me.

He hesitated, his steps pausing for a brief moment. "Get home on your own," he said flatly.

Then he left.

He had abandoned me in the middle of nowhere. How was I supposed to find a cab? A bitter laugh escaped me as I pulled out my phone and called James for a ride.

I hadn't been home long when I heard quick footsteps on the stairs. Jonathan appeared in the doorway, and I could almost sense his quiet sigh of relief.

"I'm sorry," he said, with an uncharacteristic hint of regret. "The afternoon got completely derailed. We never made it to the courthouse."

I assumed he was just filling the silence, but he kept going.

Casually, I slid the stack of invitations I'd prepared into my bag. "It's fine.”

My tone held no accusation, and he seemed satisfied. He walked over and lightly touched my head.

That was how it used to work. If I was obedient, he was gentle. He wanted me compliant and quiet, yet he gave another girl free rein to do as she pleased.

I shifted away from his hand and bent down to straighten things in the cabinet.

He paused, then tried again. "What about tomorrow? I can clear my schedule.”

He so rarely made concessions for me. A cynical smile tugged inside.

"No,” I replied flatly. "I promised Sophia I'd give her a wedding invitation tomorrow.”

As he heard that, his expression eased slightly. He still didn't know the truth. My wedding had nothing to do with him anymore.

The next morning, I came downstairs for breakfast. As I entered the dining room, I saw Chloe practically draped over Jonathan's lap.

He was coaxing her to eat. She complained that the egg whites were bland, then said the yolks would make her fat—yet he never lost his patience. He quietly cut some fruit into small pieces and fed them to her, one by one.

Her lips deliberately brushed against his fingers as she took a piece. He tensed, pulling his hand back slightly, but his ears flushed red.

I watched their little performance coldly, my stomach turning.

Finally, Chloe noticed me. "You're dressed up so nice today, Cammy," she said sweetly. "Going on a date?"

Before I could answer, Jonathan set the fruit plate down, his voice unusually firm. "Enough. Call her Aunt Cammy."

Even though she knew I was engaged to him, Chloe had always refused to call me that, as if avoiding the title could somehow undo the reality. Jonathan had never corrected her—until now.

I shrugged. "It's fine. She's young—let her say what she wants."

They were the same words Jonathan had so often said to me: She's still young. Let her be.

Yes. The problem was never her.

The problem was me. I was the one who had been blind, loving him for all those years.

My reply left him silent. He stopped feeding Chloe and moved to the chair beside me.

"I cleared my morning," he said. "Whenever you're ready to leave, I'll drive you."

Hearing that, Chloe's face fell. She opened her mouth to protest, but one sharp look from Jonathan cut her off.

So he could put her in her place. It wasn't that he didn't notice her games—he just hadn't cared enough to stop them.

But now, even if he did, it didn't matter. I was past caring.

After breakfast, I had Jonathan drive me to my best friend Sophia Hudson's salon.

Sophia lit up when she saw me and pulled me into a hug—then froze when she noticed Jonathan behind me.

"He's… here?" she whispered.

Sophia had never bothered hiding her dislike for him.

"He had some free time this morning," I explained. "He offered to drop me off."

"Huh. I thought he only had time for that little starlet," she said, not lowering her voice. "Keeping a girl half his age around all the time—calling it 'compassion.' Call it what it is—some people just have twisted tastes."

Sophia's bluntness left Jonathan momentarily speechless, his expression tightening. He turned to me, his tone slipping into that patronizing register I knew too well.

"Cammy, I don't control who you're friends with," he said. "But for the wedding, I expect you to invite people with some decorum. We can't embarrass the family. And we don't want to upset Chloe."

There it was. The last sentence was the only one that ever really mattered to him.

"It's my wedding," I said steadily, holding his gaze. "I'll decide who to invite."

I drew a calm breath, then handed the invitation to Sophia.

Jonathan snatched it from my hand, his temper flaring. "Cammy! Don't be unreasonable! What do you mean, your wedding? Isn't it our—"

Then he saw the groom's name printed on the invitation.

He went completely still. All the words died in his throat.