My Fiancé Postponed Our Wedding for His Ex

I stood in my childhood bedroom in the Collins family apartment on Fifth Avenue, one hand pressed flat against my stomach. There was nothing to feel yet. No curve. No flutter. Just the knowledge that in six weeks, maybe seven, I'd start to show.

I'd been rehearsing the words all week. *You're going to be a father.* I wanted to say it right after the ceremony tomorrow, when we were alone in the Plaza suite, still in our wedding clothes. I wanted to watch his face change. I wanted that moment to be perfect.

My phone lit up on the dresser. Vance's name.

I smiled and answered. "Hey. You're not supposed to call me the night before. Bad luck, remember?"

Silence. Then his voice came through, strained and careful. "Els. I need to talk to you."

The smile died. I sat down on the edge of the bed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just—" He exhaled slowly. "Camille's back in New York."

Camille Roberts. His college girlfriend. The one who'd tried to hurt herself after they broke up. The one he still felt guilty about, even years later.

"Okay," I said slowly. "Why are you telling me this the night before our wedding?"

"She's sick, Els. Early-onset Alzheimer's. She came back because—" His voice cracked. "She doesn't have much time left. A few months, maybe. She wanted to see me before she... before she forgets everything."

I gripped the phone tighter. "Vance."

"I know the timing is terrible. I know. But I can't just ignore her. She has no one else."

"So what are you saying?"

Another long pause. "I think we should postpone. Just for a little while. Just until—"

"Until she dies?"

"Els, please don't—"

"You want to postpone our wedding so you can take care of your ex-girlfriend."

"It's not like that." His voice turned pleading. "You know it's not. I love you. This doesn't change anything between us. It's just... I owe her this. After what happened back then, I owe her—"

"You don't owe her our wedding day."

"It's just a delay. A few weeks. Maybe a month. Then we'll reschedule and everything will be exactly how we planned."

I looked down at my hand on my stomach. *You're going to be a father.*

The words stayed locked in my throat.

"Els? Are you still there?"

"Yeah," I whispered. "I'm here."

"I'm so sorry. I know this is awful. But I promise, this doesn't change how much I love you. Nothing changes that."

I closed my eyes. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Postpone it. Do what you need to do."

The relief in his voice was immediate. "Thank you. God, thank you. I'll make this up to you, I swear. As soon as this is over—"

"I have to go."

"Els—"

I hung up.

For a long time, I just sat there, staring at the phone in my hand. Then I opened the smart home app.

I'd bought the penthouse six months ago as a surprise. Top floor, floor-to-ceiling windows, view of Central Park. I'd furnished it myself, chosen every piece. Vance had a key, but we weren't supposed to move in until after the honeymoon.

The app showed eight camera feeds. Living room. Kitchen. Bedroom. Guest room.

I tapped the living room camera.

A little girl was sitting on my rug. Maybe three years old. Dark curls. Pink dress. She was playing with a set of toy blocks, stacking them into a tower.

I stared at the screen.

Then I switched to the bedroom camera.

Vance was there. Sitting on the edge of my bed. Our bed.

Camille Roberts walked into frame. She was wearing a silk robe—my robe, the one I'd left hanging in the closet. She sat down beside him and said something I couldn't hear. He turned toward her. She touched his face.

Then she kissed him.

He kissed her back.

I watched Camille's hand slide up into his hair. Watched him pull her closer. Watched them fall back onto the bed I'd chosen, the sheets I'd bought, the pillows I'd monogrammed with our initials.

I watched until I couldn't anymore.

I closed the app. Set the phone down very carefully on the dresser.

Then I picked it up again and made two calls.

The first was to my real estate agent. "List the penthouse. Immediately. I don't care about the price. I want it sold."

The second was to my brother.

Brendan answered on the first ring. "Elsie. What's wrong."

It wasn't a question. He always knew.

"I saw," I said quietly. "The penthouse. The cameras. He's with her. Right now."

Silence. Then: "I'm coming over."

"No. Don't. I just need you to do something for me."

"Anything."

"That arrangement you mentioned. The Hawkins heir. I'll do it."

Another pause. Longer this time. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay." His voice shifted into the tone he used in boardrooms. Controlled. Precise. "I'll handle everything. But Els—are you safe right now? Where's Vance?"

"At the penthouse. With her."

"Stay there tonight. Don't go back to the brownstone. I'll have Victor start running financials on Camille Roberts within the hour."

"Okay."

"Elsie."

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

I looked down at my hand on my stomach again. Still flat. Still secret.

"Me too," I whispered.

I hung up and sat in the dark, in my childhood bedroom, in the apartment where I'd grown up believing love was supposed to be safe.

Outside, the city glittered. Tomorrow was supposed to be my wedding day.

I pressed both hands against my stomach and didn't cry.