The night he proposed, Bruno rented out the entire bistro where we had our very first date. He’d arranged everything: armfuls of fresh white roses, a platinum ring, and a feature wall covered in photographs capturing four years of our memories. Everyone in the room cheered, whispering that the stoic Bruno had finally learned how to be a romantic. For a second, I almost believed it too. Until he dropped to one knee, and his phone screen flashed on the table beside us. A notification popped up—his ex-girlfriend, Kendra, had just announced her engagement. Bruno’s gaze snagged on that banner for two long seconds. Then, without breaking stride, he pushed the ring box closer to me. "Let’s post this on Instagram tonight," he said, his voice smooth. "And we’ll go down to the courthouse tomorrow morning. What do you say?" I asked him why he was suddenly in such a hurry. He pinched my cheek with a easy laugh. "Just terrified you'll realize you can do better." After I posted the announcement, Bruno kept his phone facedown on the table. But every few minutes, his hand would casually drift over, flipping it faceup to check the screen. When our friends started chanting for him to kiss me, he subtly turned his head away, catching my wrist and angling my hand toward the photographer instead. "Get the ring first. Make sure it’s in focus." At the end of the night, while standing outside the restrooms, I heard him on his phone in the quiet hallway. "She didn't react at all?" A pause while his friend answered on the other end. "Isn't she trying on wedding dresses tomorrow?" Bruno's voice was flat, measured. "Send the photos directly to her." I stood frozen behind the cracked door. The diamond on my finger suddenly felt like a cluster of needles. The flowers, the surprise, the lifelong promise—none of it had been created for me. It was all just a reply letter written to another woman. And I was merely the signature line at the bottom of the page. … When I walked out of the hallway, Bruno was leaning against the wall, waiting for me. Seeing me, he naturally took the crumpled paper towel from my hand and gently wiped the stray drops of water off the back of my wrist. "You were in there so long, I thought my bride pulled a runner." "Who were you asking about earlier?" I looked straight at him. "When you asked who didn't react?" His hand stilled for a fraction of a second. Then he smiled. "Kendra." He admitted it so candidly that it made my confrontation feel childish, like I was picking a fight out of nowhere. "She announced her engagement today, and you proposed to me tonight," I said softly. "Is that really just a coincidence?" "She posted her news, and I booked this restaurant weeks ago," Bruno said, sliding a hand around my waist to pull me closer. He leaned down, his forehead gently resting against mine. "Can I control the exact minute she decides to update her status? The ring is on your finger, Mallory. You’re the one signing the marriage license with me tomorrow. If I happen to let her know I’m doing just fine, where’s the conflict?" "So you’re using me as a prop for her?" "Why do you always have to phrase things so harshly?" He pinched my cheek again, his tone dripping with fond condescension, as if teasing a toddler who didn't know any better. "I just got down on one knee in front of a room full of people. Are you really going to pick a fight over a ghost from my past?" Inside the private room, someone shouted for us to come back and cut the cake. Bruno took my hand and led me back to the table. He cut the first slice, carefully picking off every single hazelnut before handing the plate to me. He remembered my nut allergy. I took the plate, the cold knot in my chest loosening just a fraction. But then his phone buzzed on the mahogany table. A text from his best friend flashed across the lock screen: "Sent her the pictures. She only replied with 'Congratulations.'" Someone sitting next to us caught a glimpse of the screen and bumped Bruno’s shoulder with a laugh. "Kendra’s getting married, man. You still gotta win one last time?" Bruno set the cake knife down on the table with a soft "clack". "Who’s trying to win?" he said, his voice laced with a cold, dismissive edge. "I just couldn't stand the way she acted back then—like my life was completely over without her." His hand was still resting comfortably on my hip while he said it. His friend immediately tried to smooth it over. "Don't pay him any mind, Mallory. Bruno just has a big mouth. If he were still hung up on Kendra, why would he be on his knees for you tonight?" The table erupted into easy laughter. Someone called for a toast, urging us to lock arms and drink. Bruno lifted his glass to my lips, but as his phone vibrated again, his hand instinctively slackened. The wine sloshed over the rim, staining the hem of my silk dress. "Sorry," he muttered, but his eyes had already darted down to the glowing screen. I was the only one close enough to see it: the moment he heard Kendra’s name, his instinct wasn't to look at me—it was to check his phone. He pulled a napkin to dab at my dress, but his fingers trailed off after two half-hearted swipes. The screen still displayed that cool, detached word: "Congratulations." "She gave you her blessing," I said quietly. "Are you unhappy about it?" He flipped the phone face down. "She’s just putting on a show." With that, he pulled me tighter against his side, his grip heavy, as if trying to prove a point to an invisible audience. The crowd cheered again. He leaned down to kiss me, his lips pressing against mine, but his eyes stayed wide open. When the party finally wound down, he brought me back to his apartment. He unclasped my earrings and knelt beside the bed to gently rub my ankles, swollen from hours in high heels. "We have to take our license photos tomorrow," he murmured, his thumb stroking my warm skin. "Don't ruin your sleep over nonsense tonight." His palms were warm, his movements so practiced and tender that it felt like he had loved me deeply for a lifetime. At two in the morning, a wave of cold air woke me. Out on the balcony, Bruno was standing in the dark, scrolling through Kendra’s engagement post over and over again. He didn't like the post, nor did he leave a comment. He simply zoomed in on her new fiancé's face, then zoomed back out. There was no warmth or nostalgia in his eyes. Only the raw, restless irritation of a sore loser waiting for a rematch that wasn't coming. He wasn't waiting for Kendra to come back to him. He was waiting for her to regret leaving. But she didn't. Which meant the expensive platinum ring sitting on my finger hadn't won him the game after all. The next morning, Bruno canceled our appointment at the city clerk's office. He claimed his eyes were puffy from drinking the night before, adding that a marriage certificate lasts a lifetime, so we couldn't afford to have a bad photo. I looked into his eyes—clear, sharp, and entirely sober—and didn't bother calling out the lie. That afternoon, he took me bridal shopping instead. I fell in love with a minimalist silk gown—clean lines, a tailored waist, no glitz, no sweeping train. Bruno took one look at it, then signaled the stylist to bring over a bold, crimson-red evening dress with a dramatic cut. "Try this one." "People don't wear crimson for the license photos," I said. "For the reception, then." "I don't like red." He pressed the heavy fabric into my arms, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of my ear. "Just wear it once for me. If it looks bad, I’ll take the blame. You can punish me however you want when we get home." Bruno knew exactly how to dismantle my defenses. Whenever his voice dropped to that low, persuasive register and his eyes crinkled at the corners, my mind would drift back to a rainy night four years ago, when my mother was rushed into emergency surgery. My family was stuck out of town, the billing department was pressing for immediate payment, and I was sitting alone on the cold hospital floor, sobbing so hard I couldn't catch my breath. Bruno had driven six hours through a storm to get to me. He ran up and down six flights of stairs, handling every form, paying every fee. When I finally drifted off, leaning against his leg, he draped his heavy coat over my shoulders and sat on the freezing linoleum, guarding me all night. The next morning, I found a handwritten note on the back of the medical receipt: "Don't be scared. I'm not going anywhere until your mom walks out of those doors." Ever since that night, I had convinced myself that Bruno just had a sharp, stubborn edge to his personality. I believed that when it truly mattered, he would never abandon me. I changed into the crimson dress and walked out of the fitting room. Bruno’s eyes lit up. He stepped forward to adjust the thin strap on my shoulder. "I told you," he murmured softly. "You carry it off brilliantly." The photographer in the studio showered us with compliments. Bruno guided me under the studio lights, angling my hand toward the camera lens so the ring caught the light. He reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, smiling gently. "Keep your face visible. Didn't someone use to say you couldn't pull off high-profile looks?" Just then, Bruno’s childhood friend walked in to drop off some paperwork for the venue. When he saw the brilliant red dress, he let out a low whistle and chuckled. "Man, Kendra always used to say she’d only wear bright red for her wedding. You still remember that, Bruno?" Bruno’s hand froze against my waist. I turned around to unfasten the zipper myself, but he pressed a hand against my shoulder to stop me. "Red is traditional. It has nothing to do with her." "I didn't say a word, Bruno." His patience evaporated instantly. "Mallory, are you going to bristle every single time her name comes up? I pick out a dress for my fiancée, and you turn it into a trial for infidelity." I went back into the fitting room and changed into my own clothes. The new heels I’d worn today had rubbed the skin on my heels raw; after just two steps, I felt a sharp sting as a bead of blood seeped out. Bruno noticed it instantly. His expression darkened, and he immediately knelt on the floor, pulling a Band-Aid from his wallet. "If it hurt, why didn't you say something?" He lifted my foot onto his knee, his fingers incredibly gentle, his brow furrowed deeper than mine. I stared down at the dark crown of his head, a sudden wave of bitterness rising in my chest. He had this infuriating talent—just as I made up my mind to give up on him, he’d offer me a crumb of tenderness to keep me hooked. A second later, he lifted the hem of my skirt, snapped a quick photo of my bloodied heel resting in the red shoe next to the ring, and uploaded it to his story. The caption read: "She looks best in red." As soon as it posted, his thumb instinctively tapped the viewer log. Kendra’s name wasn't there. Bruno’s hand stilled on my shoe for two seconds. When he looked up, he forced another easy smile. "If you really don't like the dress, we won't get it. What are you crying for?" It finally clicked. He wasn't standing up for me. He was simply using me to prove to Kendra that she had misjudged him—and misjudged me. But I was the person who was supposed to build a life with him. I was not a trophy he could hold up to score points against his ex. …… Kendra blocked Bruno. He didn't tell me. I found out on my own. At three in the morning, I woke up to get a glass of water and found him sitting on the edge of the mattress, holding my phone. The screen was lit up with photos Kendra had just posted of her own wedding dress fitting. Bruno was using my account, slowly swiping through every single image. I snatched the phone out of his hand. "What do you think you're doing?" He didn't look remotely guilty. "Just looking." "She blocked you, so you're using my phone to spy on her?" "We’re getting married in a few weeks," he said smoothly. "What’s the difference between your phone and mine?" I opened the app's message history and found something far worse. Ten minutes ago, my account had sent Kendra a photo. It was the shot of me in the crimson dress, my hand angled to show off the ring. Underneath, a message read: "I heard you’re fitting dresses today too. Wishing you all the best." My fingers went cold. "You sent this?" Bruno frowned, irritation creeping into his voice. "Mallory, I just used your account to send a picture. I wasn't flirting with her under your name." "Why use my name at all?" "Because she wouldn't block you." He stated it as if it were the most logical thing in the world. My shoulders shook with quiet fury. Seeing my reaction, he reached out and pulled me, quilt and all, into a firm embrace. "Alright, I was wrong. How many years do I get for looking at your phone? Here, take my passcodes. Search whatever you want." He shoved his own phone into my hand. The device was completely clean; Kendra’s contact profile had already been deleted. "See? There’s nothing between us." He appeared to be apologizing, but in reality, he was subtly lecturing me—reminding me that I didn't even have a valid reason to be jealous. Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my hand. A reply from Kendra. "Mallory, I saw the photo, and I truly wish you happiness. But please stop letting Bruno use you to send me messages. Whatever point he’s trying to prove, tell him to come say it to my face." Bruno snatched the phone back instantly, his fingers flying across the screen as he typed out: "You’re overthinking it." I pressed my hand over his wrist. "Enough." He looked up at me, and for the very first time, I saw a flash of raw, pathetic embarrassment break through his composure. "Mallory... I just couldn't swallow my pride." "So you dragged me into your pathetic pride war?" He went quiet for a few seconds, then leaned forward to press a soft kiss between my brows. "Once we sign the papers tomorrow, I’ll never look her up again. I promise." I didn't pull away, but a tear slipped down my cheek. Bruno wiped it away, his tone a mix of mild annoyance and practiced tenderness. "Stop crying. Your eyes swell up so easily. If the photos look bad tomorrow, you’re going to blame me again." He pulled two tissues to dab at my face, then leaned down to kiss my eyelids, just like he always did after our arguments. He knew my soft spots. He knew exactly how to make me melt. His lips brushed my temple, his voice softening into a hush. "Come on, sweetheart. I’m giving you my entire life. What else are you trying to interrogate out of me?" He remembered that I cared about the photos, and he remembered how to make me yield. But he had no idea why I was crying. "What if she never regrets it?" I asked quietly. "What then?" Bruno’s lips stilled against my forehead. A long moment passed before he let out a brief, humorless laugh. "Then she’s an idiot." In that moment, there was no love in his eyes. Only the bitter, festering resentment of a man whose ego had been bruised. I suddenly realized that Kendra wasn't the hurdle standing between us. The real obstacle was Bruno’s insatiable, toxic need to win. And even as I stood on the brink of becoming his wife, my name, my phone, and my wedding gown were nothing more than rented gear for his petty competition. …… On the morning we were supposed to register our marriage, Bruno woke up at six o'clock. He tried to cook breakfast, ruining two eggs before managing an acceptable third. While heating the milk, he accidentally scalded the back of his hand. When he brought the tray to me, he offered a charmingly sheepish grin. "First time being a groom. Still out of practice." Instinctively, I reached out toward his reddened skin. Just as my fingertips were about to touch his hand, I pulled back. Bruno noticed, but he didn't call me out. Instead, he took his cold, undamaged hand and pressed it gently against my cheek. "Don't be nervous. Today, don't think about anyone else. Just think about me." Before we left, he placed both of our family registries, our IDs, and our appointment confirmation into a clear plastic folder. "From now on, you hold onto all the important documents," he said softly. "I’ll just focus on doing what I’m told." The city clerk's office was packed with couples. We pulled a ticket from the dispenser: Number 107. Bruno snapped a photo of the slip, but he didn't post it to social media. He simply held it out for me to see. "No audience this time. Happy now?" I nodded. He tucked my hand deep inside his heavy coat pocket, lacing his fingers tightly through mine. "After this, we’ll grab that claypot porridge you love. We’ll come back every year on this exact date, until our teeth fall out." It sounded so much like a real future. For a fleeting second, I let myself believe that he was finally ready to inhabit our actual life together. When the overhead speaker called out Number 98, Bruno’s phone buzzed. It was a voice message from Kendra. "Bruno, I’m boarding a flight to move overseas today. If you can... can we meet one last time?" Bruno put in an earbud and played the audio. Then he played it a second time. By the third time, the muscle in his jaw was visibly clenched. I reached over and closed the messaging app. "She’s at the airport?" I asked, staring at him. "You want to go?" Bruno stood up abruptly, reaching into his pocket for his car keys. "I just need to ask her one thing. I’ll be back in twenty minutes." The speaker chimed: "Now serving Number 103." I laid my hand over the plastic document folder resting on my lap. "Today is our wedding day, Bruno." "I know." He leaned down, carefully tucking my scarf around my neck. The gesture was gentle, but his tone left no room for negotiation. "Look, we have history. She’s leaving the country, and she wants to say goodbye. I’m just going to see her off." "I’m standing at the door of the government building with you. There’s no need to get paranoid over something this small. Just sit here and rest for a bit. I’ll be right back." Another post-dated check. As long as I was willing to keep waiting, he was always brilliant at promising a beautiful tomorrow. "Bruno, do you honestly not know what she’s doing?" His gaze darkened, his voice dropping into a stern whisper. "Mallory, the woman I came here to marry is you. Don't force me into a fight on our wedding day, alright?" He turned and walked away. The automated system called out the numbers rhythmically. "One hundred and five." "One hundred and six." "One hundred and seven." I called Bruno’s phone once. It rang until it hit voicemail. A second later, a short text popped up from him: "Almost there." Ten minutes passed. The words "Almost there" remained frozen on my screen while the system moved on to the next block of numbers. A clerk stepped out from behind the counter. "Is the groom for 107 here? If you missed your window, the ticket is void." I stared down at the clear plastic folder resting on my knees, a strange, overwhelming silence settling in my chest. "He’s not coming," I said quietly. "Cancel it." I unzipped the folder, pulled out my own ID and documents, and left his behind. Inside the bag remained Bruno’s papers, the platinum ring box, and the paper slip stamped with Number 107. I flipped the slip over, wrote a single line on the back, and placed it beneath the bridal bouquet we’d bought that morning. When Bruno finally rushed back late that night, the main lobby lights were already turned off. The security guard on duty handed him the clear plastic folder. On the back of the ticket, written in my neat handwriting, were nine words: "Ticket 107 is void." "Bruno, so are we."
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