I should have told her.
I should have explained before the wedding.
I shouldn’t have let pride and caution replace communication.
Instead, I had tried to protect myself. And in doing so, I had managed to hurt the one woman I didn’t want to lose. I started pacing.
Back and forth across the floor, my hands dragging through my hair, my mind replaying the conversation that had just unfolded. Every sentence I’d said sounded worse now. Sharper. Colder. The hallway suddenly felt too narrow, too suffocating. Every few steps, I rehearsed a different version of what I would say when she finally let me in.
Vani, I didn’t mean it like that.
Vani, I was wrong.
Vani, I trust you.
None of it sounded good enough. None of it erased the fact that I had let her believe—even for a second—that I thought she married me for my money.
The irony was laughable. She had agreed to every one of my ridiculous rules without blinking. She had signed the prenup without negotiating. She had never once asked me for anything beyond access to my card, as if it were part of a performance she was playing.
And I had still found a way to doubt her.
When the door finally opened. I stopped pacing so abruptly that I almost stumbled.
Jeans hugged her legs perfectly. A long-sleeved blouse, the softest shade of pink draped over her torso, modest and elegant at the same time. Her hair framed her face in that effortless way that always made me forget what I was saying. A pair of white sneakers dangled from her fingers, and her bag—matching the pink of her blouse—rested on her shoulder.
She looked… beautiful.
Effortlessly so.
And entirely out of reach.
She took one look at me and sighed. The look of disappointment was now replaced with one of exhaustion.
“I’m going book shopping with my sisters,” she smiled slightly.
My mouth opened automatically. “Vani, I—”
“I need your card.”
I blinked. “What?”
She shifted her sneakers into one hand and extended the other toward me, palm up. “Your card. So I can fulfill my role of being a gold digger.”
“I don’t think you’re a gold digger,” I said immediately.
She didn’t even flinch. Instead, she waved her hand in front of me impatiently. “Your card, Callahan.”
“Vani—”
“Any day now.”
There was something almost comical about the way she stood there, hand outstretched, waiting like I was a customer holding up the line. But the humor didn’t reach her eyes. Her eyes reflected how tense and guarded she was, and that was my fault.
I sighed, the sound heavy in my chest, and reached into my wallet. For a split second, I considered refusing—not because Ididn’t want her to have it, but because I wanted her to stop hiding behind sarcasm and let me fix this.
But I had already done enough damage. So I said nothing and handed it to her. She took it smoothly and slipped it into her purse. Then her eyes flicked up to mine, and she smiled. Wide. Bright. Devastating.
“I’ll be out for the day,” she said sweetly. “Spending your money.”
