Chapter 4My Girlfriend Became His Wife

The silence at the table was heavy, broken only by the faint clink of porcelain spoons against ceramic bowls.

In the old days, even during the mad dash of the morning rush, we’d trade quick observations about our day ahead, tease each other, or steal bites from each other's plates.

Was that really "the old days," though? It felt like a lifetime ago.

I ate quietly, watching her from across the table. Her head was tilted down, her thumbs flying across her phone screen with practiced speed, a faint, secret curve hovering on her lips.

This had been our real baseline for the past year. The girl who used to burst through the door after work, eager to vent about an annoying manager or share a stupid meme she saw on her lunch break, had evaporated.

Sensing my gaze, Samantha abruptly flipped her phone face down on the placemat.

She looked up at me, wearing that soft, pleading expression again. "Patrick, my team has an off-site training summit starting next week. It’s mandatory, out of state, for about two weeks."

She paused, watching for my reaction. "So... this whole weekend, I’m not making any plans. I’m staying right here with you. Just the two of us. We'll do whatever you want."

She reached across the table, her fingers grazing the back of my hand. "I’m really sorry about Valentine’s Day. Just let it go, okay? Don't stay mad at me."

I swallowed the last spoonful, wiped my mouth with a paper napkin, and leaned back.

"Okay," I said quietly.

Samantha let out a visible breath of relief, her shoulders dropping. She didn't bother offering another word. Almost instantly, her hand snapped back to her phone, turning it over to resume typing.

There was no need to ask who was on the other end of that thread.

I took my bowl to the sink, rinsed it out, gathered my jacket and car keys from the table, and walked to the entryway to tie my shoes.

As I slipped on my sneakers, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was an automated calendar confirmation from an independent jewelry artisan in the Arts District. An appointment reminder for Saturday afternoon.

The jeweler was an eccentric, semi-retired craftsman with a legendary reputation and a waitlist six months long. He didn't charge an arm and a leg, but he had one unbending rule: he would only design a custom engagement ring if both partners sat down with him in person, shared their story, and convinced him that the love was real.

I had waited six months for that slot.

Looking at the notification glowing on the glass, a quiet, bitter smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth.

There was a time when I was genuinely, passionately ready to ask her to be my wife. I had rehearsed the proposal in my head during late-night drives, picturing the light catching in her eyes when I dropped to one knee.

Some things simply rot from the inside out, and when they do, you don't save them.

I tapped the link in the notification, scrolled to the bottom of the reservation portal, and found the small red text: "Cancel Appointment".

Without a second of hesitation, I pressed it.

A dialog box popped up: "Are you sure you want to cancel this booking? This action cannot be undone."

I hit "Confirm".

Adults don't plead, and they don't try to reshape people who have already chosen to leave. I had tried communication. It only earned me labels like "jealous," "insecure," and "paranoid."