“I’m not going,” I said.
His brows drew together at once.
“You’re still angry?” His voice sharpened with impatience. “Elara, we’re engaged. We’re not teenagers playing at romance. Do you really have to act like this?”
I said nothing.
I only looked at him.
And all at once, something became painfully clear.
When I argued, I was difficult.
When I stayed quiet, I was cold.
When I gave in, it was only what he expected.
When I resisted, I was unreasonable.
No matter what I did, I was always the one expected to bend first.
Maybe the problem had never been what I said.
Maybe the problem was that I loved him enough to keep excusing it.
He let out a breath, as if he were the one being generous.
“Fine,” he said. “Then I was wrong. Is that what you want to hear?”
I gave a small shake of my head.
“You did nothing wrong,” I said calmly. “And I’m not angry. So let’s stop talking about it.”
Then I walked past him and headed for the kitchen.
I set water to boil and reached for the coffee tin. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the espresso machine and the soft rain still dripping outside the windows. While I waited, I picked up my phone and opened Instagram without really thinking.
Odette had posted again.