Of course he did.
The story I’d half‑built in my head shatters—the stupid, soft idea that he’d broken off a very convenient, very respectable future because some buried love for me refused to let him stand in front of an altar with another woman.
It wasn’t love.
It was logistics.
I was never the dream.
I was the problem.
The mess he’d made as a kid that came due when he was almost respectable, and he chose to take the hit before it tanked his stock.
*Because of her situation.*
Because he’d already bought a singer, he couldn’t show politely at a wedding.
I realize, with a nasty little twist, that I’ve been parsing his choices through Elena’s frame all night: fiancée, fireworks, helicopters, and sacrifice. It never occurred to me that both of their versions could be skewed—and that
