Ethan’s hand paused around his wineglass.

Then he looked at me.

“Don’t call me your future husband.”

The words were calm.

Too calm.

Across the table, his sister Mia smirked. His mother Lauren, lowered her eyes to my engagement ring like she was reassessing its value.

I blinked.

“Sorry?”

“We’re engaged,” Ethan said. “We’re not married. Don’t make it sound so final.”

Lauren sighed softly.

“Men need space, sweetheart.”

Mia added, almost amused:

“Especially men like Ethan.”

Ethan reached over and tapped my wrist lightly, like I was something mildly inconvenient.

“Don’t be sensitive.”

Sensitive.

That word again.

It followed me everywhere in this family.

If I objected, I was sensitive.

If I stayed quiet, I was understanding.

If I paid for things, I was generous.

If I asked questions, I was difficult.

And for a long time, I believed it.

Because Ethan hadn’t always been like this.

Five years ago, he was different—focused, grateful, grounded.

Then his startup grew.

Investors came in.

Articles followed.

Awards, panels, interviews.

Somewhere along the way, he stopped feeling like someone I loved and started acting like someone the world owed attention.

I kept waiting for the earlier version of him to return.

That was my mistake.

He didn’t disappear.

He just stopped trying.

“Okay,” I said quietly.

“I get it.”

Ethan smiled like the moment had been resolved.

It had been.

Just not in the way he thought.

That night, Ethan slept in my apartment.

I stayed awake in the home office.

The city lights blurred beyond the glass.

My laptop was open to dozens of documents.

Wedding contracts.

Guest lists.

Hotel blocks.

Vendor agreements.