My fiancé said, “Don’t call me your future husband.” I nodded. That night, I quietly removed my name from every guest list he’d made. Two days later, he walked into lunch and froze at what waited on his chair.

The moment my fiancé told me not to call him my future husband, something inside me went completely still. Around us, silverware scraped porcelain, champagne glasses rang softly, his mother laughed like shattering crystal—but inside my chest, something faithful and old quietly d:ied.
I had only said it once.

“My future husband hates olives,” I told the waiter with a smile, sliding the little dish away from Adrian’s plate.

Adrian’s fingers stopped against his wineglass. Then he turned toward me wearing that polished, handsome expression he reserved for investors, cameras, and women he wanted to charm.

“Don’t call me your future husband.”