Not Waiting Anymore

"We need to push signing the marriage license to next week. Sienna has an emergency, and I have to go."

Dominic sliced into his medium-rare ribeye across the table. His silver knife scraped against the bone china, making a harsh, screeching sound.

He'd said this too many times. His tone went from apologetic months ago to completely numb now. He didn't even bother saying "sorry" anymore.

My hands froze for a second before I looked up to catch his expression.

Cold. Distant. Like he was talking about the weather. He didn't even look at me.

I looked back down, smoothly cut a piece of steak, and put it in my mouth.

"Okay," I answered calmly.

The air instantly froze.

Dominic snapped his head up. His icy-blue eyes—the eyes of a Chicago mafia don—stared right at me. A rare flash of shock and guilt flickered across his face.

During the past 24 times, I would lose it at the dinner table. I'd scream and demand to know why we threw a massive wedding for 200 elite guests, why everyone thought we were happily married for eight months, yet we didn't even sign a legally binding marriage license.

But this time, I didn't even want to waste a single word.

The first time we planned to go to city hall, Sienna claimed she got an anonymous threat. Dominic ditched me thirty minutes before we left. He left me alone to face the clerk and a wall of media cameras, turning me into a total laughingstock.

The second time, Sienna claimed guys from a rival family harassed her at her private stable, scaring her horse. Dominic and I just came back from a private island trip. The second we got into the car for city hall, he forced the driver to flip a U-turn. He left me in my high heels on a rain-soaked private dock in the middle of a storm.

Eight months. 25 times. Every single time we booked a spot at city hall, Sienna had an emergency right on cue.

"You're not mad?" Dominic put down his fork and knife, crossed his arms, and studied my face. "Aria, you're never this quiet."

"Why would I be mad?" I looked up and gave him an encouraging smile. "Sienna is your savior's daughter. Her stuff always comes first. I get it."

Dominic frowned. My fake sweetness made him restless instead.

I stood up and started clearing the plates, my fingers brushing the table.

Suddenly, a heavy hand slammed down on my wrist. Dominic stood up, gripping me so hard it felt like he wanted to crush my bones.

"Next Friday," he glared at me, his voice low and commanding. "Next Friday at ten in the morning, city hall. I promise I won't flake. I'll make our marriage official."

Next Friday.

In the last eight months, he said "next week" 11 times, "absolutely" 19 times, and "trust me" 23 times.

"Sure," I turned around and showed him a sweet, obedient smile.

He let out a sigh of relief. The guard in his eyes vanished, replaced by his usual cold, arrogant vibe. He turned and strode out of the estate.

The second I heard his supercar engine roar away outside, the smile left my face.

I set the plates down, pulled out my phone, and opened an encrypted email from a top art gallery in London.

As the chief art advisor for the Rossi family, I finished my resignation paperwork last week.

Inside the email was just a single one-way flight confirmation. The date was next Friday at 9:00 AM—exactly one hour before his 26th scheduled city hall appointment.

I pulled off my custom Cartier diamond engagement ring and dropped it coldly onto the empty dinner plate.

This time, he didn't need to struggle for another excuse to bail.

Because next Friday, the one ditching everything will be me.