My Fiancé Let His Secretary Demand a Million Dollars from Me—So I Married Someone Else

My fiancé, Hayden, brought a group of people to my parents' house to discuss the wedding, and his girl best friend and secretary, Mara, handed everyone an itemized list. "Given the bride's depreciation, I'll be revising the terms of Hayden's prenuptial trust." A year earlier, he'd proposed in Paris and promised me a million-dollar trust that I could use however I wanted once we were married. I'd been so touched. Now Mara was announcing the deductions in front of everyone: "The bride is twenty-eight—wonderful, deduct $250,000; after seven years together, the novelty's gone, so deduct $350,000; she's pushed for a wedding twelve times in six months, clearly desperate to get married before her flaws come to light, so deduct another $400,000." Everyone burst out laughing. My parents were mortified, but Hayden didn't say a word. And just like that, instead of receiving the million dollars he'd promised to secure my future, I now had to pay him a million dollars to marry him. I went out to the garden to calm down, only to hear one of Hayden's friends tease him: "If her family comes up with the million, does that mean Hayden actually has to marry her?" Mara scoffed. "Those hicks couldn't raise that much even if they sold their house. There's no way they can afford it." Hayden leaned against his car door and said casually, "I'm making it too expensive on purpose so she'll call off the engagement. She's been hounding me about a wedding, and I'm sick of it. I'm not ready." I stood around the corner, my hands clenched. He'd been the one to propose, yet somehow I was the one who wouldn't leave him alone. If he didn't want to marry me, I'd find another groom. I took out my phone and called a number I hadn't dialed in seven years: "You once said you wanted to marry me. Does that offer still stand?" There was a brief silence on the other end. "Yes, it always has." ... Back in the dining room, Dad handed me his phone, the screen showing my parents' savings account. A little over eighty thousand dollars. Mom held my hand and said quietly, "This is what we can get right away. The rest... we'll figure something out." Dad didn't blame me either, just started calculating how much they could get for the house and the car. "The house and the farm... if we get a good price, then with the car and the tools, we could at least start by—" I put my hand over his phone. "Dad, we're not selling the house—I'll marry someone else." Seven years ago, before Owen left to work in London, he'd asked me, "Claire, if you ever get tired of waiting for Hayden, would you consider me?" Later, I'd cut off contact with him to reassure Hayden. Now, seven years later, I finally admitted that I didn't want to wait anymore. I was going to marry him. Not Hayden. They both froze. Mom was the first to tighten her grip on my hand. "Sweetheart, don't let what happened today push you into a decision you'll regret." Dad grew anxious too. "Is Hayden worried you'll still have to look after us once you're married? Tell him we'll be fine on our own. If it bothers him, we don't have to come to the wedding." My tears suddenly spilled over. Even after being humiliated like this, they were still trying to find a way, afraid I wouldn't get to marry the man I loved. Before I could speak, the dining room door opened, and Mara walked in with a smile. "How's the fundraising going?" Hayden came in last. Seeing my red eyes, he frowned. "A million dollars scared you that badly? Maybe now you'll stop hounding me about a wedding. Mara's right—you need to cool off." My hands were still cold when I sat down again. Out of habit, Hayden squeezed my hand, then pulled my jacket up over my shoulders. Mara nudged his arm, looking slightly annoyed. "You're still trying to make her feel better? No wonder she thinks she can cry and get you to marry her." Hayden laughed. "From now on, every time she brings up marriage, we'll add another fifty grand." His friends laughed again. I said nothing else and didn't touch the food on my plate. After dinner, Mom took them to see the guest room we'd prepared. For Hayden's visit, my parents had repainted the walls, replaced the mattress, and hired someone to fix the air conditioner in the guest room. Mom had even called specifically to ask what kind of pillow he was used to. But less than a minute after going in, Mara came back out, her face full of disgust. "You actually expect Hayden to sleep here? That bed's way too hard." One of his friends opened the bathroom door and made a show of grimacing at the clean but slightly dated toilet: "Is this thing from the last century? It looks filthy and disgusting!" "We're not going to catch some horrible bug, are we?" Mara kept spraying disinfectant into the air. Mom's face flushed. "Of course not. I cleaned it today." Dad stood beside her and explained that no one usually stayed in the guest room, and he'd replaced the sheets and quilts with new ones. If they needed anything, he could go buy it right away. Hayden looked around and took out his phone. "Forget it. That hotel nearby still has suites available. We'll stay there." Mara immediately grabbed her bag. "Let's go. I seriously can't stay here another minute." The cars soon drove away. Mom stood on the porch until their taillights disappeared before going back upstairs to strip the freshly made bed. Two new pillows lay side by side, their tags just cut off. With her back to me, she gave a small laugh. "Hayden grew up with money, so it's understandable that he's not used to this. Don't fight with him—we should've done more." In my seven years with Hayden, I'd made countless excuses for him. When he went clubbing, I said he was just keeping his friends company; when he didn't reply for days, I said he was busy with work; when he missed our anniversary to play video games with Mara, I told myself they'd known each other longer and were just friends and colleagues. But I couldn't keep making my parents suffer through this with me. I hugged Mom and told her, "You did everything right. He doesn't deserve it." Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Thinking Hayden and the others had come back, Mom hurried to answer it. But the man outside wasn't Hayden. It was Owen, still pulling his suitcase, his shirt creased from a long flight. "Claire, I'm here."