If He Delays Our Wedding, The Marriage Is Off

Valentine’s Day Eve, I asked my boss—and fiancé—Simon for PTO to get our marriage license. He rejected it before the whole team and approved his new assistant Daisy’s lengthy vacation instead. She booked St. Barts ages ago, he said, tossing my form aside. Cover her shifts. I’ll be there on business anyway, keep an eye on her. The license? Push it back. A few days won’t kill you. The office went silent. Daisy looped her arm through his, cooing her thanks. When we return, I’ll bring you duty-free souvenirs. Watching them play the perfect couple, I didn’t swallow my pride this time.

Simon didn’t know our wedding date was a hard deadline. If I wasn’t married by Memorial Day, I’d lose my bet with Grandfather and face his arranged marriage roulette. I unclipped my badge, dropped it in the trash, and signed a resignation form in one stroke. Then I called Manhattan’s wealthiest patriarch. Grandpa? I yield. I’ll take that arranged marriage.

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