Wes stares at me like I've just spoken a foreign language.
"My fiancée is just a little stressed," he says smoothly to themanager, that practiced smile sliding into place. "With work and everything."
Something in me snaps.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?" he asks, irritation sharpening the edges of his voice.
"Speak for me. About me. Like I'm not standing right here."
The air crackles.
Wes's jaw tightens. He forces the smile wider, more brittle.
"We'll be in touch," he says curtly to the manager. "I'll call later today and secure the deposit."
He doesn't wait for me. Just turns and walks toward the door with the kind of rigid control that means he's furious as we walk out in silence.
The silence makes the drive home unbearable.
The tension is thick, suffocating, feeding off his anger and my resolve that hardens with every mile. He grips the steering wheel too tight. I watch the city blur past the window and the distance between us grows, stretches into something that can't be repaired with apologies or explanations.
When we get home, he storms inside. I linger in the doorway, heart pounding, keys still in my hand.
"Are we seriously not going to talk about this?" I call after him.
He spins around.
"About what? How you humiliated me? Or how we probably just lost that venue?"
"That's what you're worried about?" I say, disbelief mixing with anger.
"I fought for that meeting," he snaps. "Do you know how hard it is to get time at that place? How many strings I had to pull?"
"What about the fact that this wedding feels like it's running away from me?"
He laughs bitterly, the sound sharp and ugly.
"Running away from you? You mean how you run from everything the second anything gets uncomfortable?"
The accusation lands, but it doesn't stick the way it used to.
"Maybe that's true," I say quietly. "Maybe I do run. But at least I'm honest about it."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you need to control everything." My voice shakes, but I don't stop. "You've given me everything except a choice."
"You're ungrateful," he says, stepping closer. "I've given you everything. The house. The car. The ring. The movie deal?—"
"The movie deal for the book I wrote," I interrupt.
"That I sold," he counters. "That I fought for. That I made happen."
My hands curl into fists at my sides. I force them to relax.
"You know what, maybe we need space," I say, my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my ribs.
