Crashing His Public Proposal To Cheating Boyfriend

Maya's knees hit the hardwood before I can say another word.

The sound is sharp. Brutal. A crack of bone against oak that makes Mrs. Hale flinch and Mr. Hale's jaw tighten. Adrian's brother Nate straightens in his chair, confusion flickering across his sharp features, and their aunt—Genevieve, the one who shrieked with delight when Adrian announced his engagement—presses a manicured hand to her throat.

"Get up," I say.

Maya shakes her head. Her shoulders heave. The mascara tracks have reached her chin now, and her blouse is damp with tears, and her hands—those same hands that held the tripod steady, that angled the camera perfectly, that spent three months helping me plan the most beautiful proposal—are reaching for me like I'm the only solid thing in a room that's spinning.

"I thought he ended it," she chokes out. "He swore to me. He swore."

My stomach goes cold.

"What are you talking about?"

She grabs my wrist. Her fingers are ice. "Six months ago. I walked into his apartment—he gave me a key, remember, for when he was traveling—and she was there. Celeste. In his kitchen. Wearing his shirt."

The livestream comments explode.

I don't look at them. I look at Maya. At her red-rimmed eyes and her trembling mouth and the guilt that's been eating her alive for half a year.

"He got down on his knees," Maya whispers. "Right there in the kitchen. Celeste was in the bedroom, she didn't hear. He said—he said she was an old fling who wouldn't let go. He said he was handling it. He said if I told you, it would destroy everything, and he was trying to protect you, and he just needed more time."

She breaks off. Gulps air.

"I believed him." The words come out like a confession. "He's my brother. He looked me in the eyes and he cried and I believed him. And then he never mentioned it again. And two months later, you asked me to help you plan the proposal, and I thought—I thought he'd finally done it. I thought he'd finally ended things with her and chosen you."

The room is so quiet I can hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.

Maya's forehead touches my knee. "I should have told you. I should have told you the second I knew. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Something inside me splinters.

Not breaks—I broke already, ten minutes ago, when Adrian lifted his wine glass and said her name is Celeste. This is different. This is the splintering of something I didn't know was still intact. The trust I had in Maya. The belief that she and I were a team, that we were orchestrating this together, that she had my back the way I've had hers since the day Adrian introduced us.

She was his sister first. I knew that. I always knew that.

But I thought she was mine too.

My hand is still holding the phone. The livestream. Three hundred and—I glance at the counter—four hundred and twelve viewers now. The number keeps climbing. Strangers are probably joining. People who don't know any of us. People who are watching this family implode in real time.

I should end the stream.

I should lower the phone and deal with this privately.

But Maya planned the proposal to be public for a reason. Adrian hates being put on the spot. Public is the only way you'll get a real answer.

She was right about that.

She was right about everything except the most important thing.

"You knew about Celeste," I say, and my voice is flat, clinical, the voice I use in work meetings when someone tries to bullshit me. "For six months. And you helped me plan a proposal anyway."

Maya's grip on my wrist loosens. "I thought—"

"You thought he'd ended it. I heard you." I pull my hand free. Not roughly. Just... finally. "But you didn't check. You didn't ask him. You didn't ask me. You didn't say, 'Hey, before we book a venue and invite three hundred people to watch you get engaged, maybe we should make sure my brother isn't still sleeping with someone else.'"

Her face crumples further. I didn't think that was possible.

"I was scared," she breathes. "I was scared of being the one who blew up his life. I kept thinking—he said he was handling it. He said he'd do it. And then weeks turned into months and you were so happy and the proposal was so close and I convinced myself that if he hadn't ended things, he wouldn't have let it go this far. He wouldn't let you plan a wedding."

Nate makes a sound behind me. Something between a scoff and a laugh. "Classic Adrian. Let other people clean up his mess while he smiles and pours the wine."

Adrian's head snaps toward his brother. "Stay out of this."

"Why?" Nate leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "You made it everyone's business when you put it on a livestream."

"I didn't put it on a livestream. She did." Adrian points at me. His finger shakes. "She set this whole thing up. She's the one who—"

"Adrian." Mr. Hale's voice cuts through the room like a blade.

Everyone freezes.

Mr. Hale has not moved from his wife's side. His hand is still on her shoulder, steady and warm, and his face —that calm, weathered face with its deep lines and steady gaze—has not changed expression once since I walked through the door. But his voice. His voice is something else entirely.

"Son," he says, and the word is not affectionate. The word is a verdict. "You will lower your hand, and you will stop pointing at the woman you just humiliated in front of our entire family, and you will sit down."

Adrian doesn't sit.

His finger stays up. Aimed at me. Trembling.

"I was going to tell her," he says. "Tonight. After dinner. I was going to sit her down and explain everything. She ruined it by showing up early and making a scene."

A laugh bursts out of me. Ugly and sharp and completely involuntary.

"I ruined it?" I take a step toward him. The phone stays up, camera still rolling, four hundred and twenty- three viewers now. "You stood up in front of your parents and announced your engagement to another woman. You let your mother cry tears of joy for a daughter-in-law she's never met. You let your brother clap you on the back. You looked your aunt in the eyes while she shrieked with happiness. And you were going to explain that to me? After dinner? What was the plan, Adrian? 'Hey, sorry about the pierogi, by the way I'm marrying my coworker, hope you can still make it to the wedding'?"

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

The comments are flying. I catch fragments—he really said she ruined it and the audacity and Maya knew?? and someone check on Celeste.

Celeste.

I almost forgot about Celeste.

I turn the phone toward my face, addressing the camera directly. "Celeste, if you're still watching—I'm sorry. I didn't know about you. You didn't know about me. We've both been played." A breath. "The ring he was going to propose with, by the way, is the ring I bought. For him. Maya planted it in his jacket so I could fake- find it and propose. So if he proposed to you with a stunning rose gold ring in the near future—surprise. That's mine."

The comments go absolutely berserk.

Maya is still on her knees. Still crying. Still reaching for me like a shipwreck survivor reaching for shore.

"I'm sorry," she says again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

I look down at her. At this woman who spent three months helping me pick out the perfect dress, the perfect venue, the perfect words. Who sat with me in coffee shops while I practiced my speech. Who held my hand when I got scared. Who told me, over and over, he's going to say yes, he loves you, anyone can see he loves you.

Was she lying?

Or was she lying to herself?

"I know you're sorry," I say quietly. "I just don't know if sorry matters."

Maya's face shatters.

Adrian takes a step toward me, emboldened by the silence. "Let me explain," he says again. "Please. Just give me a chance to—"

"No."

I don't even look at him.

"The camera's still rolling." I gesture toward the phone in my hand. "You wanted an audience. Here's your audience. Four hundred and thirty people. Explain to them how you spent two years sleeping with two women. Explain to them how you let your sister believe you were ending things with Celeste. Explain to them how you looked me in the eyes this morning and kissed my forehead and said you couldn't wait for tonight."

His face is gray. Sweat glistens at his temples. His mouth works, searching for words, searching for a spin, searching for the charm that's always gotten him out of every tight spot since he was fifteen years old and talked his way out of a speeding ticket.

The charm isn't working.

The charm has left the building.

"I never meant to hurt you," he says finally. Lamely.

My smile is a razor. "You never do."

Mrs. Hale sinks into her chair. The velvet ring box is still in her palm, clutched like a rosary, and her eyes are fixed on her son with an expression I can't quite read. Disappointment is too small a word. Grief, maybe. The grief of watching someone you raised become someone you don't recognize.

Genevieve, the aunt, has been silent this whole time. She's still standing by the window, still pressing her hand to her throat, but something in her posture has shifted. Her bright smile has faded into something harder. Something that looks a lot like recognition.

"You pulled this before," she says suddenly.

Everyone turns.

Adrian's aunt crosses her arms under her chest, auburn hair catching the light. "Not exactly like this. But close. The Davis girl. Remember her? Senior year of college. You were seeing her and that bartender at the same time. They found out at your graduation party and you stood there with the same face you're making right now."

Adrian's jaw tightens. "That was different."

"It wasn't different," Genevieve says flatly. "You just got better at hiding it."

The silence stretches.

Mr. Hale's hand drops from his wife's shoulder.

He steps forward.

It's the first time he's moved since this whole nightmare started, and the room shifts around him—Nate straightening, Genevieve stepping back, Maya lifting her tear-streaked face from my knee. Mr. Hale is not a tall man, but he fills space in a way that makes him seem enormous. Broad shoulders. Salt-and-pepper hair. The steady, deliberate walk of someone who has spent sixty-five years learning patience and has finally run out.

He stops in front of Adrian.

Looks at his son.

And the look on his face is the worst thing I've seen tonight. Worse than Adrian's announcement. Worse than Maya's confession. Because it's not anger. It's not even disappointment anymore.

It's resignation.

"Give me your keys," Mr. Hale says.

Adrian blinks. "What?"

"Your apartment keys. Your car keys. The key to the storage unit you think I don't know about." Mr. Hale's voice is impossibly calm. "You've been living in our guesthouse for six months while you 'figured things out.' You told us the lease on your old place fell through. But I'm guessing that wasn't true either."

Adrian says nothing.

His father holds out his hand.

"Keys," he repeats. "Now."

The livestream counter hits five hundred and two.