I thought I knew how much my fiancé loved me—until he didn’t show up at the altar on our wedding day. The next day, I discovered him in my father’s office, signing papers behind my back. Little did I know, everything was about to change.
It all started on the night of our sixth anniversary. Brian and I went to our favorite fine-dining restaurant, a place we knew like the back of our hands. I could tell something was off. Brian seemed nervous, shifting in his seat, glancing around. “What’s wrong, Brian? Are you okay?” I asked, concerned.
He nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, of course. It’s our anniversary. I couldn’t be happier,” he said, though his tension was palpable.
Just as I glanced back down at the menu, Brian got down on one knee. I gasped as a group of musicians appeared behind him, playing soft, romantic music. “Jane, we’ve been together for six years, and I know with all my heart that I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Brian said. “Will you marry me?”
Overwhelmed with emotion, I said yes, jumping up to hug him. The ring was stunning—a solitaire that must have taken him ages to save for. I couldn’t have been happier.
The next day, I rushed to my parents’ house to share the news. My mom was overjoyed, but my dad’s reaction was cold. “You can’t be serious about marrying that man,” he said, disapprovingly. “How will he support you? Buy a house? Send your kids to private school? He’s not the man for you, Jane.”
