That was the worst part.
If Vani had thrown tantrums or demanded outrageous things, I would’ve known how to handle it. If she’d acted entitled, greedy, or desperate, I could’ve kept my distance. But she wasn’t any of those things.
She was calm. Playful. And far too observant.
Theo sighed. “Let me ask you something. When she looks at you, what do you see?”
I hesitated. Because I knew the answer.
“She looks at me like she’s trying to figure me out,” I said slowly. “Not like I’m an ATM.”
“Exactly.”
“But what if she’s just good at pretending?”
Theo groaned. “You are exhausting.”
I shot him a glare. "You're supposed to be helping me."
“I am,” he insisted. “But you're already full of so many doubts just because you’re scared that if you actually let yourself believe she likes you, and you’re wrong, it’ll hurt.”
My jaw tightened. He wasn’t supposed to say that. He wasn’t supposed to hit the nail on the head like that.
Theo continued, relentless. “It’s easier to assume she wants your money than to risk finding out she might actually want you.”
I stared at the bar counter, watching the condensation slide down my now-empty glass.
Because what if she didn’t?
What if I opened that door and she laughed?
What if she confirmed every insecurity I pretended not to have?
“You need to talk to her,” Theo said firmly.
“And say what?” I snapped. “Hi, are you using me? Please answer honestly.”
He laughed. “Not like that, idiot.”
“Then how?”
He shrugged. “Start simple. Tell her how you feel.”
The idea coiled in my gut, nausea rising just beneath the anticipation. My throat tightened at the thought.
“How would I even know if she’s being genuine?” I asked quietly. “She could lie to save face.”
“And you could keep hiding and ruin something good,” he countered.
Silence fell between us. The truth settled heavily in my chest.
I liked her.
More than I thought I did, which explained why I was sitting here instead of at home.
Theo stood, tossing a few bills onto the table. “You’re done.” He grabbed my arm and hauled me up. “Go home.”
I’d wanted to argue. I’d wanted to say she wasn’t really my wife. That this was an arrangement. A contract. A mutually beneficial agreement was signed with a lawyer present, and my parents’ satisfaction was looming over me like a corporate merger.
