The conference room was cold, impersonal, as most corporate spaces are. I sat across from Ben, my fiancé, at a long, polished table. An envelope, stark white against the dark wood, held the center of attention between us. It contained the contract we were supposed to sign today. A contract that would merge our lives and businesses, a testament to our trust. The date on the front read October 12, 2023. I watched as Ben’s eyes flitted to his phone, then back to me, avoiding my gaze. His silence was louder than any argument. “You still want to do this?” he asked, his voice steady, but his eyes betraying a hint of something else—anxiety perhaps. I knew this was more than nerves. The envelope felt heavier now, weighted down by the truth I had uncovered. His calm demeanor, a practiced mask, was slipping. But I held my own, refusing to crumble. “Let’s just go through it,” I replied, matching his tone. The room fell back into silence, the air thick with unspoken words. We were both playing a game, but the rules had changed, and he was yet to realize.
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