His Sacred Promise, My Stolen Dreams

Cassie POV: "Good morning, sleepyhead," Ethan said, his voice annoying cheerful, as he walked into the silent apartment. He didn't even glance at me, curled on the sofa, my face a mask of exhaustion. He was already shrugging off his jacket, his attention elsewhere. "I've got some great news about the wedding plans." He walked straight to the kitchen, oblivious, grabbing a mug. "The photographer called. He' s booked solid for the new date Kiera found. So," he turned, finally looking at me, a casual shrug of his shoulders, "we'll just have to cancel the bridal shoots." My heart, which I thought had been pulverized beyond repair, gave a small, surprising lurch. Not of pain, but of immense, overwhelming relief. Cancel the bridal shoots. Cancel the wedding. Yes. Please. "Okay," I said, my voice flat, almost emotionless. He paused, the mug halfway to his lips. His eyebrows, usually furrowed in corporate concern, lifted slightly. "Okay?" he repeated, a hint of surprise in his tone. "That's it? 'Okay'?" He had expected a fight, a tearful plea, a desperate attempt to salvage the sentimental photo sessions. He had expected the old Cassie, the one who obsessed over every detail, who had spent countless hours curating inspiration boards, choosing the perfect locations, the perfect poses. The Cassie who had poured her heart into the vision of our wedding, our future. But that Cassie was gone, replaced by a hollow shell of calm. My stillness unnerved him more than any outburst ever could. He frowned, setting the mug down with a soft thud. "I thought you'd be upset. You spent months planning those shoots." "Past tense, Ethan," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet. "I spent months. Things change." He blinked, his surprise morphing into something akin to disappointment. He probably wanted me to be hysterical, to give him a reason to play the benevolent rescuer, the patient fiancé enduring a woman's emotional meltdown. But I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "Right," he said, clearly thrown off balance. He cleared his throat. "Well, since we're making adjustments, Kiera just mentioned a wonderful idea. She thinks it would be a beautiful gesture, a real sign of solidarity, if you designed her new house. For free, of course. As a wedding gift to her and Mark's memory." He even managed to avoid my eyes as he said it, a clear sign he knew how outrageous it sounded. My jaw clenched, a muscle in my cheek twitching. The audacity. The sheer, unadulterated gall of him. My blood ran cold, then hot with a silent, simmering rage. Design her house? With the money he stole from us? For free? It was so absurd, so insulting, it almost bypassed anger and landed squarely on a strange, detached amusement. "For free," I repeated, my voice devoid of any warmth. "Of course. Anything for Kiera." He looked up then, a faint line forming between his brows. "I mean, it would be a huge project for your portfolio, Cassie. A real statement piece. You could even put it on your website." He tried to sell it to me, as if I were a clueless intern. "Oh, I'm sure I could," I said, a brittle smile touching my lips. "A memorial to a broken engagement. A testament to misplaced trust. What a wonderful addition to my professional repertoire." He missed the sarcasm entirely, his face brightening with a hint of genuine relief. "Exactly! See? I knew you'd understand. You're always so pragmatic, Cassie." Pragmatic. Yes, I was pragmatic. Pragmatic enough to realize that he was completely deluded. Pragmatic enough to know I was done. "So, you'll do it?" he pressed, his eyes gleaming with the triumph of a deal closed. "Consider it done," I said, my voice flat. "Anything for Kiera." He beamed, genuinely pleased. "Fantastic! I told Kiera you'd come through. She'll be thrilled." He didn't see the silent scream behind my eyes, the cold, calculated fury simmering beneath my calm. He thought he had won. He thought I was bending to his will, accepting my role as the dutiful, self-sacrificing fiancée. He started rattling off details about Kiera's preferences, the number of bedrooms, the style she wanted. He talked about "our" plans-his plans for Kiera' s house-with an enthusiasm he hadn' t shown for our firm in months. He was living a double life, but he wanted me to design the set for his second act. While he outlined architectural preferences for Kiera's new life, I outlined my own escape plan. My mind raced, ticking off items on a mental checklist. The fellowship application, the apartment lease, the bank accounts. Every word he uttered, every casual mention of Kiera, fueled my resolve. I had been a prop in his self-serving drama for too long. Now, I was writing my own ending. He finished his monologue, pausing to look at me, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "So, I'm thinking about heading over there this afternoon, getting the lay of the land. We can discuss your designs later this week." He picked up his mug, humming a tuneless melody as he walked towards the bathroom. "I'll be quick!" he called out, the sound of the shower already starting. I stood there, motionless, listening to the water running, the off-key humming. My past self, the one who would have wept, screamed, or pleaded, was silent. She was a distant echo, a fading memory. I looked at the engagement ring on my finger, a relic of a love that was never truly shared. I felt a surge of pity for that past Cassie. But pity was a luxury I could no longer afford. My phone, previously a source of pain, was now a tool, a weapon. I had a lot to do before he got out of that shower.