Dressed in a gray, freshly pressed, tailored suit, Colin’s blond hair is styled and parted, and he’s gazing at me with expectancy, as if I’m supposed to burst into hysterics, crying and making a scene worthy of Hamlet.

But I’m frozen, thinking WTF?

Why?

And . . . why now?

But wondering the whys won’t do me any good. Colin’s obviously thought this through and wants to end it all.

Doesn’t matter that I just spent weeks trying to find the perfect wedding dress.

Doesn’t matter how much I want the fairytale wedding.

Doesn’t matter that my Papa won’t get to walk me down the aisle. Maybe never.

None of it matters to him.

In a hit that’s even more impactful than Colin’s words, I realize that none of my thoughts on this betrayal have anything to do with us, our relationship, or our love. Love?

Do I even love Colin?

Stupid me thought I’d make it work using a checklist for our compatibility.

Both career-oriented people. Check.

Former lovers. Check.

Both matured and ready to settle down. Check and check.

Boy, was I wrong on that last one.

“Violet?” Colin presses again, this time reaching across the table and placing his hands atop mine.

Suddenly, I feel queasy, and I have to fight back the urge to throw up in his lap.

“I know this has to come as a shock to you, but I’ll cover the lost deposit on the wedding hall and every other expense associated with our engagement so you don’t have to worry.”

Just like I thought, he’s already planned his exit strategy, as if our wedding, our marriage, was some business transaction. For him, maybe it was. For me? I don’t know, I realize. Maybe this is what the buzzing butterflies have been trying to tell me?

“Why?” I ask simply, battling down the surge of nausea.

Colin licks his lips, lips that I once enjoyed on my neck, on my breasts, on my most sacred of places.

“Violet, you know I adore you, and you’re beautiful, smart, and kind, but . . . I don’t think I’m ready for marriage.” He stares at me again, rubbing my hands as if waiting for the crying hysterics he knows must be coming.

He definitely wants a show, just not too much of one. That perfect balance of greedy hunger for drama, tampered with the knowledge that he doesn’t want to look bad.

That’s why he picked the coffee shop, I realize. Cold and calculated. The Radcliffe way. In public, he knows I’m not going to go fully emotional, batshit crazy or really even make a scene. It’s not my style.

But he does want to see me shatter into a million tiny pieces, and he wants an audience while he does his dirty work.