It was white, glossy, and tied with a navy ribbon. Too formal for him. Derek was not a ribbon man. He was a “grab a bottle of wine on the way home and call it romance” kind of man. So when he crossed the living room with that box in his hand, I thought maybe—stupidly, sweetly—that he had actually made an effort.
People noticed. Conversations softened. Someone said, “Aw, is this the fiancé speech?”
Derek smiled.
It was the smile that finally bothered me.
Not because it was warm. Because it wasn’t.
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