The call was supposed to last five seconds.
Owen Mercer FaceTimed me from his parents’ house to ask about table runners. The wedding was tomorrow. My living room was a maze of half-open boxes—candles, place cards, the guestbook, little favor bags my kids had helped tie with ribbon.
“Blush or ivory?” Owen asked, the camera wobbling as he walked.
“Blush,” I said without thinking, smiling through the stress. “It’ll match the flowers.”
“Perfect,” he said. “Hold on—my mom’s calling.”
The screen went dark, but the call didn’t end. I assumed he’d be right back. I propped the phone against a vase and kept folding napkins.
Then I heard voices.
Not muffled. Not distant. Clear and close.
The call was still live.
Patricia—his mother—asked, “Did you get her to sign it?”
Owen laughed. “Almost. She’s skittish about paperwork, but after the wedding she’ll sign whatever I put in front of her. She wants this too much.”
My fingers went numb. I stared at the black screen like it might explain itself.
Grant, his brother, chimed in. “Especially with the kids. She’s desperate for stability.”
Owen dropped his voice, smug. “Exactly. Two kids, different dad, no ring. She’ll grab any fresh start she can.”
My stomach clenched. Liam and Sophie were asleep down the hall, buzzing with excitement for tomorrow. They’d practiced tossing petals. Owen had promised them we’d finally be a real family.
Patricia cut in, sharp. “And the house? Your father says don’t marry her unless the deed is locked down. We’re not letting her touch what you built.”
“Relax,” Owen said. “I already talked to the lawyer. The prenup’s written so whatever she brings becomes marital, but what’s mine stays mine. If she leaves, she leaves with nothing.”
Grant laughed. “Add the child-support clause. You don’t want to pay for kids that aren’t yours.”
“I won’t,” Owen said. “I’ll have her sign something after the wedding. My buddy in HR says there’s a way to handle benefits too—add them, then drop them if she acts up.”
I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from making a sound.
“Good,” Patricia said. “Once you’re married, she’ll stop pushing for that joint-account nonsense. You control the money.”
“She’s already halfway there,” Owen replied. “She keeps asking if she should quit her job to focus on the kids. I’m letting her think it’s her idea.”
Grant whistled. “You’re set.”
They laughed—like my life was a board game they’d already won.
I backed away from the phone like it could burn me. Every memory twisted—Owen helping Sophie with homework, flipping pancakes with Liam, rubbing my shoulders at night. It wasn’t love. It was strategy.
Then Patricia said the sentence that snapped the last thread.
“Just make sure the wedding happens. Once she’s your wife, we can deal with her attitude. If she pushes back, remind her she has nowhere else to go.”
My heart hammered so loud I thought they’d hear it through the line.
“She won’t leave,” Owen said, confident. “Not with kids. She needs me.”
I looked toward the hallway where my children slept, and something inside me went cold and clear.
They didn’t need him.
They needed me.
I ended the call. For a full minute I stood there, breathing through the shock, staring at the wedding boxes like evidence.
Then I moved—quiet, fast, deliberate.
No tears yet. I pulled two duffel bags from the closet. Clothes for Liam and Sophie. Their favorite stuffed animals. Birth certificates. My work laptop. The envelope with my savings—the one I’d kept separate “just in case,” even though Owen joked that I was paranoid.
At 2:13 a.m., I opened the front door and listened for silence. My hands were steady.
Because I had decided.
Tomorrow wasn’t my wedding.
Tomorrow was our escape.
As I zipped the last bag, my phone buzzed.
Owen: “Babe, can you sign the document I emailed? It’s just a form for after we’re married.”
I stared at the screen and felt the trap snap shut—then smiled, hollow and calm.
Because I finally understood exactly what I was about to avoid.
