His Sacred Promise, My Stolen Dreams

our dream architectural firm-to buy a house for his widowed fri

He hadn't been asking for my permission; he had

agne, celebrating the day he stole our future. He then h

e her fake pregnancy and her staged fall, calling

he stole my voice and painted

dding, sold our assets, and booked a one-way ticket to a new l

pte

sie

art our own architectural firm-to buy a house for his childhood friend, Kiera Preston, was a "sacred

is voice a low, steady drone that had becom

ed with such care, as if he were addressing a jury. His corpora

like an old rubber band. "Ethan, this is our firm

nvey my unreasonableness. "Kiera is a widow. She has a

ered, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.

rying to bore into my resolve. "It's a hou

hrough me. "It' s every late night I spent sketching

sign of his growing frustration. "Don't you have a

mmon sense. And a sense of self-preservation. This isn't about compass

he needs this, Cassie

ed, my voice cracking. "What abou

ken accusations. The air was thick with the weight of our unresolved conflict

e accused, his tone shifting from pleading to outright

. My partner, the man I was supposed to marry, was prioritizi

m making this difficult? Ethan, you want to spend every cent we have

ng me. Weeks of this same argument, the same circular logic, th

r. My voice trembled, betraying the calm I desperately tried to projec

eached out, his hand hovering, then dropping. "Cassie, please. Don't say

e continued, the momentary softness evaporating, replaced

our joint account without telling me?" I a

emptying out,' Cassie. It's an invest

audible. "Is our dream 'just' a dr

o this, it proves my love for you. It proves I'm a man of my wo

e knife deeper. He was using our love, his "honor," as a shield for his betrayal. It wasn't love; it was pure manipulation. I saw

he suffocating tension. He pulled it out, his eyes d

. He lowered his voice, retreating to the balcony, the hushed tones a stark reminder of the

ed our lives together, meticulously, like the architectural blueprints I poured my soul into. Every corner, every beam, every window-

t, rarely left my sight, its digital privacy a given in our open, trusting relationship. Or so I thought. But lately

y high-profile cases. I had blindly trusted him, believed in the sanctity of our bond. I had convince

e a mixture of concern and forced cheerfulness. "Everyt

sing," he said, too quickly. "I need to go assist he

nded. My mind pieced together the fragments: the hushed call, his urgent departure, the subtle sce

iding my gaze. "Just... to the

efused to acknowledge, refused to even look at.

nst the smooth, cold granite. My phone buzzed, vibrating insistently on the countertop. Brenna. My best friend Brenna, the sharpest journalist I knew, had promise

one. A single imag

s, funneled into an escrow account. The date on the transfer was two

stay upright. The world spun around me, the pristine white walls of our apartment closing in. The betrayal wasn't new. It wa

eady bough