The Groom Who Wasn't Invited

At the Sterling Foundation's annual charity gala, the grand ballroom hushed as the final auction item—an exclusive weekend at a five-star private desert resort—came up for bid.

My best friend, Sloane, shot me a conspiratorial wink. This had to be the long-planned surprise from my boyfriend of eight years, the tech world's golden boy, Corbin Sterling. All eyes were on him. He casually lifted his paddle, clinching the bid without effort.

But he walked right past me, inviting his star project manager, Peyton Shaw, onto the stage. "For an employee who gives her all to the company," he announced into the microphone, handing her the voucher.

He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear as he murmured, "Relax, Auden. It's just a business move. What I have planned for us is a hundred times better than this."

As the spotlight bathed Peyton’s triumphant face, my hand drifted to my still-flat stomach. The cool silk of my gown seemed to hum with the secret I was keeping. A smile—bitter, relieved, and entirely my own—touched my lips, unnoticed by anyone.

Corbin didn't know there would be no "better" celebration for us. Because I'd already promised my parents I would be coming home next week. For good.

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1

The moment that travel package landed in Peyton Shaw's hands, the smile slid right off my best friend Sloane's face. She was more furious than I was, leaning in to hiss in my ear, "That bitch. She did it on purpose. I heard her before the gala, telling anyone who would listen that Corbin was giving her the grand prize tonight!"

I cut her off gently. "Sloane, don't be angry for me. It's not worth it."

"But you've waited eight years to marry him!" Her voice was tight with anxiety. "And now you're pregnant with his child! You can't let this slide—"

"It doesn't matter anymore." My gaze settled on Corbin Sterling. Peyton, clutching the voucher, was seated beside him—far closer than a project manager needed to be. Most of the guests were East Coast elites, familiar faces from our families' social circles. Their curious, pitying glances flickered my way all evening.

Sloane's grip on my hand tightened, her frustration mounting. "Auden, I did some digging on that Peyton. She's a total gold digger who goes after the tech nouveau riche. She's been making a play for Corbin for months. You need to watch your back."

"Sloane, don't worry about me." I squeezed her hand back, offering a faint smile. "Besides, I'm done waiting for Corbin. And I haven't told him I'm pregnant."

My words stunned her into silence. Her eyes widened in disbelief, and it took her a long moment to process, remembering we were still at a public gala. As the evening wound down, Sloane hugged me fiercely. "Auden, whatever you need, you just call me. Whatever you decide, I'm with you."

"What decision? What were you two whispering about?" After Sloane left, Corbin sauntered over, his usual calm composure intact. He reached for my waist, a familiar gesture, but I sidestepped him.

"Nothing."

He didn't seem to notice the rebuff, merely chuckling. "Are you mad? That package was for employee morale. Peyton is a key player, she earned it. Didn't I say we have something better planned?" He moved closer, his voice dropping as he tried to placate me. "Forget some desert resort. When we celebrate, I'm booking us a private island in the Caribbean. All yours. For as long as you want."

My hands tightened into fists at my sides. I looked him straight in the eye. "Then let's go to City Hall this month and get married. Sloane and I made a pact when we were kids—we'd get married in the same year, be each other's maid of honor, and watch each other find happiness."

The air between us went still. Corbin's hand, which had been about to smooth my hair, froze. A few seconds later, he laughed softly. "You're seriously still hung up on a childhood promise? Auden, I'm the CEO of a publicly-traded company. A wedding isn't something we can just throw together. Stop being so impatient. I promise you, when it happens, it will be perfect."

A familiar bitterness rose in my throat. Every conflict, every disappointment, was always deflected with a "next time," a grander promise for a future that never arrived. Eight years of waiting. I was done waiting. I was going home.

The chauffeured car glided silently through the city, finally pulling up to our penthouse. Corbin unbuckled his seatbelt, evidently believing the tension had dissipated. He leaned in for his customary kiss.

I held up a hand, pressing it gently against his chest. "I'm tired, Corbin."

He froze, his gaze searching mine for a few seconds before he gave my shoulder a placating pat. "Yeah, these things are draining. Get some rest. Peyton's team is pulling an all-nighter, I'm going to drop by the office to show some support. Can't have the team thinking their boss just takes the credit and bails."

I gave a quiet nod. But Corbin lingered, as if waiting for the usual script—for me to protest being left alone, or to plead with him to come home early. I simply opened the car door, stepped out, and shut it softly behind me.

As the luxury car disappeared into the night, I wiped at the tears stinging my eyes and dialed my parents.

"Dad, Mom... I'll do it. I agree to the marriage arrangement with Julian Prescott."