"The family's discussing the wedding date. Big news coming soon."

The comments were nothing but rows of 999.

"Congratulations! Wishing you a lifetime of happiness."

"Irma, I didn't realize you moved this fast—you're getting married already? Still your childhood crush, the dream guy?"

"A perfect match, made for each other!"

Under all of it, Irma had only replied with one playful little sticker.

If anything, it looked like a quiet confirmation.

Spencer glanced at it and sighed.

"I didn't know Irma posted something like that. I'll have her take it down right away."

"Besides, she's a kid. She's got a mischievous streak, always messing around like this."

"Only people who don't know us would read into it."

"Deborah, we've been together six years. Who doesn't know you're my girlfriend?"

"We're about to get married. You know my mom never wanted this in the first place. I had to talk myself hoarse just to win her over."

Then his voice softened.

"Come on. Let's not do this anymore, okay?"

It came out more like a gentle reminder.

Keep pushing and you'll cross a line.

But I kept turning that one phrase over in my head—Spencer's "six years together, who doesn't know you're my girlfriend."

I let out a thin laugh, and my finger tapped open his social media feed.

The last six months of visible posts came to nine in total.

Three were about games.

Three were food and scenery.

The final three were Irma.

Not a single one was about me.

Six years together, and I couldn't even remember the last time Spencer had posted anything about me.

Or maybe he never had.

Even back when we'd first gone official, the post he made was a blurry shot of my back.

I'd been a little hurt at the time and asked why he couldn't post a photo of my face.

Spencer had tapped the tip of my nose. "My girlfriend's this beautiful. I don't want anyone else looking at her."

But now, staring at that post, I really wanted to ask him:

"Then all those people liking Irma's photos, calling her sister-in-law—do they actually know I'm your girlfriend?"

The words reached the edge of my tongue. I didn't say them.

I could already picture it.

The moment I asked.

The exact flicker of irritation, the way his brow would crease.

"Enough, Deborah. I'm running myself into the ground every day, dealing with the company alongside my dad."

"I come home, and you still want to fight over this petty nonsense."

Besides, it wasn't like this hadn't happened before.

Last time, when my parents came up from the countryside to see me and I couldn't get away, I'd asked Spencer to pick them up from the station.

He'd answered me, cold-faced:

"Your parents really have a knack for timing. It's Irma's graduation party today. I already promised her I'd go."

"And anyway, your parents aren't children. Why do they need someone to fetch them?"

In the end I was the one who gave up my perfect attendance, took the day off, and went to the station myself.

And the time before that, when my stomach hurt so badly I couldn't stand it, I'd called Spencer begging him to take me to the hospital.

He didn't reply until after the ambulance had already brought me in, and even then it came lazily:

"I was swimming with Irma. Didn't see your messages."

"Which hospital are you at? I'll head over now."

And then there was today.

Irma and Spencer, eating ice cream off the same spoon.

"Ice cream tastes sweeter when Irma feeds it to me."

His germ phobia was a joke.

"Deborah, my parents weren't happy you didn't show today either. They think you came off pretty ill-mannered."

Spencer's voice still came through from the other end of the line.

"Tell you what—come over to my place first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll sit down and really hammer out the wedding plans…"

"We'll see. I'm exhausted today. I want to turn in early."

With that, I hung up.

The next day, I had no intention of taking time off. I headed to the office like I always did.

But at the foot of the building, Spencer's car cut me off.

He gave two short honks and rolled down the window.

"Get in. I already called you in sick."

I froze, my brow knitting tight. "I never asked for the day off. Why would you go and decide that for me?"

"Oh, come on. It's just a job."

Smiling, Spencer pushed the door open and gently steered me into the car.

"I've told you before—once we're married, you'll be Mrs. Stephens, without a care in the world."

"The Stephens family will provide for you. My wife has no business out there working, parading herself in public."

Something bitter churned in my chest.

"So because I'm marrying you, I don't even get the right to hold a job?"

Spencer didn't answer. He just lowered his head, pulled out an alcohol wipe, and scrubbed his hand. Carefully.

Scrubbing, meticulously, at the spot where his hand had just touched me.

Six years together. I'd long since gotten used to Spencer's severe germ phobia.

But in that moment, the sight still stung my eyes.

My nose prickled.

I asked, "Spencer, am I that filthy?"

Spencer paused, then lifted his gaze to me, startled.

"Deborah, why would you ask that?"

I drew in a deep breath. I wanted so badly to demand it of him out loud—why one touch from me meant disinfecting himself over and over.

It was always like this. After kissing me, he had to rinse his mouth.

After holding me, he had to shower.

Even after just holding my hand, he'd wipe himself down again and again with alcohol wipes.

Why couldn't I touch his spoon, couldn't touch his things?

While Irma could use his spoon, could share a single bowl of ice cream with him.

But looking at his blank, helpless eyes, I let out a wry little laugh and swallowed the words back down.

"It's nothing. Let's go."

When we reached the Stephens house, his parents were already seated in the living room, waiting.

Hearing me come in, Aaron Stephens silently took a sip of his tea, and Andrea rolled her eyes.

I steeled myself and stepped forward to greet them.

"Mr. Stephens, Mrs. Stephens, these are some homemade gifts I brought for you…"

"Don't bother. The Stephens family wants for nothing. Take it back."

Andrea spoke from on high.

"Deborah, if my son insists on marrying you, then you'd better learn how to be a proper Mrs. Stephens. Don't be so penny-pinching."

A wave of humiliation washed over me, and I bowed my head.

Because my family came from the countryside, the gap in our backgrounds was vast.

Spencer's parents didn't like me.

It was only because Spencer had dated me for six years, swearing he'd marry no one else, that they'd grudgingly agreed to the match.

I'd thought they had accepted me—yet still, in a thousand small ways, they found new ways to shame me.

"Mom!"

Spencer stepped in to rescue me. "It's still a token of Deborah's goodwill. Just take it."

Andrea gave a cold snort and tossed the gifts to the housekeeper without a second glance.

"Well, since you're both here, let's get on with discussing the wedding."

I breathed a little easier and sat down, just reaching for the wedding proposal on the table.

Then, out of nowhere, a crisp girl's voice rang out behind me.

"Mr. and Mrs. Stephens, look—do I look good in this wedding dress?"

I went still.

Why was Irma here again?

Everyone turned to look.

Aaron nodded with a smile. "Irma's really grown into a fine young woman."

Even Andrea Stephens, who rarely smiled, let one slip now. "Stunning. That gown might as well have been made for you."

Her eyes flicked toward Spencer, knowing and sly. "Don't tell me my son gave it to you as a gift?"

Basking in everyone's praise, Irma Fox spun in a delighted little circle.

"Spencer, your parents think it looks beautiful. What do you think?"

Spencer nodded, indulgent.

"It does look good."

Irma's chin lifted in triumph, and she shot me a smug little smile.

But my gaze drifted slowly down to that gown, and the blood drained from my face.

"Spencer, is that the gown I picked out for my own wedding?"

"Yes."

He said it like it was nothing.

"She's a young girl, hasn't seen much of the world. She was just curious, only trying it on. It's no big deal."

Irma planted her hands on her hips and huffed.

"Spencer, who exactly hasn't seen much of the world?"

"You, obviously."

He laughed softly and pinched her puffed-up cheek.

"Aaagh! Mr. and Mrs. Stephens, your son is picking on me! I demand a rematch!"

The two of them pretended to scuffle, carrying on like a pair of bickering children.

Irma seized the chance to loop her arms around Spencer's neck and wrenched at his head.

Spencer just smiled through all of it, doting, even reaching out to steady her waist.

Afraid she might fall.

"Slow down, you little maniac."

I watched the whole thing, stunned.

With me, Spencer had always been mature, composed, never once letting this childish side show.

He never roughhoused with me like this.

Because the more he touched me, the more elaborate the disinfecting ritual he'd have to perform afterward.

Yet with Irma, somehow, the rules didn't apply.

"This gown's in the way. Let me get it off and then I'll really take you down."

Having lost the arm-wrestling match, Irma peeled the wedding gown off her body and tossed it carelessly to the side.

That gown had taken me two months of careful searching to find.

I'd wanted to marry Spencer in it, dressed in my finest.

But now the gown was soiled.

And my love had long since been torn to shreds, beyond saving.

Seeing my eyes fixed on the rumpled gown crumpled on the floor, my face dark, Andrea sneered, dripping with mockery.

"Spencer, didn't I tell you? Girls who come up from the country are always making trouble."

"One ratty gown, and she has to put on a face over it."

I forced the tears back and set down the wedding plans in my hand.

"I have things to do. I'll be going now."

"Deborah!"

I'd barely stepped through the front doors when Spencer came chasing after me, calling my name.

"What's gotten into you this time?"

He caught my wrist, baffled.

"We agreed to discuss the wedding today. We haven't even started, and you're already throwing a fit and storming off. How does that look?"

"It wasn't easy getting my parents to agree to this marriage. They set aside important matters just to wait for you to show up."

"Deborah Butler, even tantrums have a limit."

"No one is going to keep indulging your spoiled-princess temper, over and over again!"

Looking at his irritated face, I let out one cold laugh after another.

"Then tell me. Why is my wedding gown on Irma's body?"

"Why is it that every single time we sit down to discuss the wedding, Irma shows up to wreck it?"

"You think I'm the one being unreasonable? Spencer, you saw how your family treated me back there. If you also think this marriage is too much of a stretch, then maybe we should just call it off."

Spencer's brows knit tight.

"Didn't I just step in and smooth things over for you back there?"