Sophie’s POV
The meeting with the creditors ends forty minutes earlier than expected—some miracle of their rare mercy that never happens when I actually need it to. “Client meeting” is what I tell Blaze. Another perfected lie.
The men in expensive suits made their expectations clear with clinical efficiency: final payment in two weeks, or they start exploring alternative collection methods. The euphemism chilled my blood.
I consider stopping for coffee, maybe browsing the bookstore down the street, anything to kill time before heading home to another evening of wedding planning and carefully maintained pretense.
But exhaustion wins out. The constant performance of being an excited bride-to-be is draining enough without the added weight of my father's debts crushing down on me.
I just want to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea and pretend, for a few hours, that my life isn't a house of cards waiting to collapse.
The drive home passes in a blur of familiar streets and traffic lights that seem determined to delay my arrival. When I finally pull into the driveway, Blaze's car is there as expected. Home early from whatever team obligations filled his afternoon.
I unlock the front door quietly, slipping inside without announcement. No need to call out—the apartment is small enough that he'll hear me moving around soon enough.
And then I freeze. Through the gap where the hallway opens into the kitchen, I see them.
Blaze and Asher, pressed together in the doorway like they're the only two people left in the world. Their mouths are fused in a kiss that speaks of years of longing, of desperate need finally given permission to surface.
Blaze's hands cradle Asher's face like he's something precious and breakable. Asher clings to him like Blaze is the only solid thing in a world that's crumbling around them both.
The intensity of it, the raw, honest emotion, steals my breath.
I don't gasp. Don't cry out or drop my keys or make any of the dramatic sounds that would announce my presence. Some instinct for self-preservation keeps me utterly silent.
Instead, I simply step back, easing the door closed with trembling fingers, and retreat to my car before either of them notices the intrusion.
The streets blur as I drive aimlessly through residential neighborhoods, my mind struggling to process what I just witnessed. I should feel angry, betrayed and devastated that my fiancé is kissing another man in our kitchen three weeks before our wedding.
Instead, I find myself pulling over at a small park, settling onto a bench beneath an old oak tree, and staring at nothing while something entirely different settles in my chest.
Relief. The realization hits me like a physical thing. I'm not angry at all. Not jealous or heartbroken or any of the things a betrayed fiancée should feel.
What I feel is crushing, suffocating guilt.
I've been watching Blaze suffer for months. Watching him try so hard to build something real with me while his heart belonged entirely to someone else.
I've seen the way he stares out windows when he thinks I'm not looking, the careful way he responds when Asher's name comes up in hockey coverage, the hollow smile he wears when people congratulate us on our engagement.
He's been slowly suffocating under expectations that were never fair to begin with, and I've been complicit in every moment of it. Profiting from his misery while his parents systematically erased pieces of who he really is.
The engagement ring catches the afternoon light, throwing tiny rainbows across the ground. It feels like a shackle now—for both of us.
A young couple walks past, pushing a stroller, laughing about something the baby did. Normal people living a normal life built on honest foundations. Everything Blaze and I are pretending to have.
I pull out my phone and stare at the screen for a long moment, then type carefully: Running a bit late with some business stuff, but heading home soon. Maybe 30 minutes or so?
A warning, kindness. Time for Asher to leave before I have to pretend I didn't see what I saw.
The response arrives faster than I expected: No worries. Take your time.
I wait on the bench, watching pigeons peck at crumbs scattered by earlier visitors.
A jogger passes, earbuds in, lost in whatever podcast or music is carrying her through her evening routine. An elderly man feeds ducks at the small pond, speaking to them in soft, gentle tones.
Life continues around me while mine fractures into pieces I'm not sure how to reassemble.
Twenty minutes later, I see Asher exit our building across the street. His shoulders are hunched, head down, moving quickly like he's trying to outrun something that's following close behind. He doesn't notice me sitting here in the gathering dusk.
I count another ten minutes before standing. Long enough for any awkward goodbyes to be finished, for Blaze to collect himself and restore whatever mask he wears when I'm around.
Inside, the apartment smells faintly of Asher's cologne—something woody and expensive that clings to the air like an accusation. Blaze appears from the kitchen, smile bright and practiced, the same expression he's worn for months.
"Hey, beautiful. How was your day, the client meeting?"
"Good, I’d say proactive." I set down my purse with careful precision, mirroring his performance. "Yours?"
"Quiet. Just worked on some stuff for the team. Nothing exciting."
We orbit each other carefully in the living room, two actors maintaining a scene neither of us believes in anymore.
The wedding planning materials are still scattered across the coffee table—venue contracts, catering menus, fabric samples for centerpieces we'll never use.
"I was thinking we could finalize the guest list tonight," I say, the words tasting like sawdust. "Send out the invitations this week."
"Sure. Sounds good." But something flickers across his face—guilt, maybe, or panic at the thought of making this charade more official.
I can't do this anymore. I watch him move through the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to survey our dinner options, and the decision crystallizes in my chest like ice forming over still water.
"Blaze," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. "I need to tell you something."
He freezes with the refrigerator door still open, and when he turns to face me, there's something in his eyes that looks almost like hope. Or fear. It's impossible to tell which.
The confession sits on my tongue, ready to spill out. Your parents are paying me. This whole relationship is a lie. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
But then the creditor's voice echoes in my head: Final payment in two weeks, or we start exploring alternative collection methods.
What happens if I confess everything now? Blaze will hate me—rightfully so. His parents will refuse to pay the remaining money. The creditors will come for me, and this time there won't be any extensions or negotiations.
My mouth opens, then closes. The words die before they can form.
"I was thinking," I say instead, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears, "maybe we should move the ceremony earlier in the day? Like a brunch wedding instead of evening?"
The hope in Blaze's eyes flickers and dies, replaced by something that looks like disappointment. "Oh. Yeah, we could look into that."
We discuss logistics with the mechanical precision of people going through motions neither of us believes in. Catering adjustments, photographer timing, whether the venue can accommodate the schedule change.
Normal conversation between two people planning their wedding. Except nothing about this is normal, and I'm the only one who knows it.