Skeet suddenly spoke.

"How about this... we postpone the wedding."

I froze.

He almost looked relieved, like a weight had just slipped off his shoulders.

"Norah's at a critical point for her promotion. I don't have the energy for wedding stuff right now."

So Norah's promotion mattered more.

Even the wedding we'd spent six months planning got pushed aside for her.

A bitter ache spread through my chest.

He reached over, brushing my hair like he could calm me down. "Postponing isn't bad. We'll have more time. And you won't get upset every day because I'm too busy. Once I get through this, I promise I'll—"

"Skeet." I cut him off. "Let's break up."

His hand froze in my hair. Disbelief crossed his face.

He rubbed his temples. "Quit playing. We're not kids throwing around breakups. I said postpone for you. I want to give you the perfect wedding. Why are you—"

His phone rang.

Norah.

He declined it.

It rang again.

He glanced at me.

"Go ahead. What if it's important?"

He exhaled and stepped onto the balcony to answer.

I watched his back. Under the dim yellow light, his voice softened.

Nothing like the impatience he'd just shown me.

Suddenly, I felt drained.

I turned and went upstairs.

I slowed at the photo wall.

Seven years of us, frozen in frames.

Now they were covered in dust.

I stepped closer. My eyes landed on the one in the center.

From when we first moved in.

Skeet was putting together the wardrobe, sweat running down his face.

He heard the camera, turned, and grinned at me.

Sunlight poured through the window, cutting across his profile and the brand-new floor.

On the back, he'd written: [Our first place together.]

The faint living room light fell over the words.

Cold.

Like a quiet joke.

Footsteps came from downstairs.

I heard them. Didn't move.

A few seconds later, Skeet stopped beside me.

"Why are you standing here?"

I didn't answer.

"I'm getting married next week."

Skeet froze.

A few seconds later, he turned to me, loosening his tie, irritation creeping in.

"Bella, didn't I say we're postponing? Were you even listening? Getting married next week—you make it sound easy. Do you know how complicated a wedding is? How much I have to handle? Did you think about my time, my work, my feelings?"

"Next Saturday," I said. "The hotel, the dress, the ring—they're all set."

He rubbed his temples again, then let out a cold laugh. "Your mom pushing you again? Wake up. You can't listen to her about everything."

"Their generation's outdated. You know how much pressure there is now to marry and have kids. Rushing it just tanks our quality of life—"

"Skeet." I cut in. "I'm getting married next Saturday."

His face twitched.

"Bella Blanchett, you think this'll make me give in? It just annoys me. You look childish. Unreasonable. You haven't thought about the pressure, the responsibility. Or how marriage hits our work, our lives. Are you really that desperate to sell yourself off?"

The words kept coming.

Before, I would've explained. Compromised.

Now, I just felt calm.

Marrying me would mess with his work and life.

But every time Norah called, didn't he drop everything?

Didn't that mess with his work and life too?

Guess it just depended on who was calling.

I looked at him. "Yeah. I am."

Then I turned, walked into the guest room, and locked the door.

I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

My phone buzzed.

Mom.

"How'd it go? Did you talk to Andrew?"

I thought about that friend request I left hanging. "Not yet."

"Then at least talk to him. Skeet's wrapped up with that so-called mentee, and you're still wasting your life on him?"

I stayed quiet.

Mom sighed. "I'm not pushing you to marry just to marry. I just don't want Skeet dragging you like this. Think about it—you've been together seven years. You'll be thirty next year. If a man had any sense of responsibility, would he keep stalling like this? No answer, nothing?"

She paused, then softened. "Forget it. If you really can't let him go—"

"Mom," I cut in, "Skeet and I broke up. I'll listen to you. I'm getting married next week."

***

Skeet moved into a staff apartment.

Probably to avoid me—and what he thought was me pushing for a wedding date.

Fine. We both needed space.

I started cutting him out. Piece by piece.

First, I listed our house with an agent.

Once it sold, I called him.

No answer.

Guess he thought I was pushing the wedding again.

I hesitated, then decided to give him the money in person.

His door was cracked open.

Laughter drifted out.

I raised my hand to knock.

Then I heard a familiar voice.

"Skeet, it's my fault. If I wasn't so dumb, I wouldn't keep bothering you. I wouldn't have made you and Bella fight. It's all on me..."

Norah.

My hand froze midair.

"It's not about you. Don't overthink it."

Skeet's voice stayed flat.

Then someone else chimed in—

"Skeet, that's not what she wants to hear. You've been up late teaching her every night. That's how you talk to her?"

Laughter burst out inside.

My fingers curled tight.

"Don't start," Norah cut in, soft and perfectly timed. "We're just mentor and mentee. Don't say stuff like that. What if Bella gets the wrong idea?"

"The wrong idea? We all see how close you are."

"Yeah. Skeet, what do you think?"

A beat of silence.

Then Skeet, easy and lazy—

"What is there to say? Drink."

He didn't deny it.

Which meant he accepted it.

The laughter got louder. Someone teased,

"Alright, alright, we'll drop it. Norah, pour your mentor a drink—"

Norah laughed softly.

Through the door, I could almost see it—that perfectly timed shy look.

My chest tightened.

Then slowly eased.

I should've seen it sooner.

The late-night "overtime."

The sweet edge in her voice notes.

The flicker in his eyes when he looked at her.

And that time—

The perfume on his collar.

Not mine.

Not his either.

When I asked, he said they'd sat close in a meeting. Picked it up from some coworker.

I believed him.

Seven years. From a crappy rental to a place of our own—I thought I knew him better than anyone.

Turns out, that was just me thinking.

A voice cut through from inside.

"Oh right, Skeet—I got Bella's wedding invite. Next Saturday? You actually showing up as the groom?"

Skeet said nothing.

The room went quiet for a few seconds.

Then someone asked, low, "So... is the wedding even happening?"

Another scoffed. "Happening? They've been together seven years and didn't marry. Now suddenly it's on? You buy that? I don't. Seriously—at her age, she's still trying to pressure him? Why do that to herself?"

"Exactly. She'll be thirty next year, right? How's she supposed to compete with Norah? Young, pretty—"

"Enough."

Skeet finally spoke, but it wasn't sharp.

The guy laughed. "Alright, alright, no more Bella. Let's talk about Norah. She's way better. That face, that body..."

I stopped listening.

I asked the building supervisor to give Skeet the bank card, then turned and left.

***

Third Person POV

The next day—wedding day.

Skeet didn't even know why he woke up early, threw on his custom suit, and drove over.

Outside The Grand Marlowe, the air buzzed like a party already in full swing.

A smile tugged at his lips.

'Fine. If the vibe's this good, I'll go through with it.'

He straightened his bow tie.

Then—thunderous applause from inside.

His heart stuttered. He rushed forward and shoved the door open—just in time to see the stage.

The emcee's voice blasted through the speakers.

"The moment you've all been waiting for!"