I thought we were celebrating fourteen years of marriage, but what started as a romantic anniversary dinner quickly unraveled into a revelation that shattered everything I knew about my husband, James.
Fourteen years. I’d convinced myself that love changes, that passion fades, and that quiet companionship was enough. But sitting in that upscale restaurant—our honeymoon spot—I hoped James might surprise me, remind me of the man I’d fallen in love with.
The evening started well. Candlelight, soft smiles, and then James reached into his jacket. My heart skipped. Could it be a romantic gesture?
“Happy anniversary, Brittany,” he said, placing a box on the table. I opened it, half-expecting disappointment. Inside were utensils. Again.
“Thank you, James,” I said, forcing a smile. He hadn’t noticed—didn’t see me at all.
Then came the surprise. A salad instead of our entrees. The waiter leaned in. “There’s something inside for you, from your husband.” I dug through the greens and found a gold ring with a diamond. My heart soared—finally, a gesture of love.
But when James returned, his face went pale. “Where did you get that?” he demanded, his voice cold.
“From the salad. The waiter said it’s from you.”
He looked at the waiter with fury. “It’s not from me,” James said flatly. “Put it down, Brittany. We need to leave.”
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