Contractually Married my ex-mate's father

I held the side of my face where Ian Murray—my fiancé—had slapped me. It burned like fire. My whole body trembled.

Ian looked at me with utter disgust. He wiped the palm that had just struck me with a tissue, as if my skin had dirtied him.

"Daphne, you knew full well that Jess isn't in good health, and yet you still had to bring up our wedding in front of her. What were you thinking? Yes, I said I'd marry you. So what? That gives you the right to be this impatient? Are you so worried that aside from me, no one else would ever want you? Can't you just wait a little longer?"

His face was clouded with frustration, his eyes full of contempt.

Then, without warning, an old memory drifted to the surface—three years ago, when Ian had looked at me with eyes full of tenderness and asked me to marry him.

"Daphne, I want to marry you as soon as possible," he had said. "That way, we can spend our whole lives together."

Not long after, I had brought up the idea of getting married.

Ian promised me a grand, lavish wedding.

Fast forward to three years later, now, and it still hasn't happened.

The first time, he said it was too soon, that we were still young, there was no rush.

I thought maybe he had cold feet. I tried to comfort him, reassure him that everything would be okay.

The second time, he claimed work was too busy, that he had to go on a business trip with no set return date. Once again, the wedding was postponed.

Again and again, over and over—it'd been eight times now.

Each time, I'd excitedly choose a venue, talk to the host, and prepare small gifts for guests.

And every time, Ian would find a reason to cancel.

Until today. I finally couldn't hold it in anymore.

We weren't young anymore. Our careers were stable. So I gathered all my courage and asked him when we were finally going to have the wedding.

What I didn't expect was for his answer to come in the form of a slap.

A long silence stretched between us.

I pressed my lips tightly together. My ear was ringing, my cheek swollen and numb from the blow.

Ian let out a sigh and turned to leave.

Instinctively, I reached out and grabbed his hand, asking in a low voice, "Where are you going?"

He flinched, yanking his hand away as if shocked, stepping back.

I froze in place, my hand awkwardly suspended in midair. I stared at him, unable to believe it.

"Sorry, Daphne," he muttered quickly, his voice low, tinged with guilt. "I lost control. I'll go buy you some ointment."

He didn't wait for a reply before walking off.

I pressed my lips together and said nothing.

Three years of love.

Suddenly, I wasn't sure if I even knew who he was anymore.

The same man who had just hit me without hesitation could now lower his head and apologize as if nothing had happened?

Ian didn't come back for a long time.

Worried, I went out to look for him.

And then, under the streetlight in front of the hotel, I saw them—two figures wrapped in an embrace.

He leaned in close to her ear, his voice soft.

"Don't worry, Jess. As long as you don't give your consent, I won't marry her. You've done so much for me. No matter what you ask, I'll say yes."

I bit down on my grief, covering my mouth with both hands, trying not to sob aloud.

I wanted to run up and demand an explanation, but my legs felt as if they were filled with lead.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't take a single step forward.