He Refused to Marry Me, So I Wed His Boss

I took my boyfriend to my best friend's wedding over the weekend. The moment we stepped back into his apartment, the air shattered.

He hurled his keys onto the kitchen island. "Do you really think these cheap little stunts are going to pressure me into proposing, Maeve?" "I told you from day one I don't do the marriage thing." He jabbed a finger toward me, his jaw tight. "If you're that desperate for a ring, we should just end this right now." He didn't wait for an answer.

The front door slammed shut behind him. This time, I didn't curl up on the couch to draft paragraphs of desperate, apologetic texts.

I walked straight to the bedroom and pulled my luggage from the top shelf. Roman was right. Since he had no plans to marry me, it was time to cut my losses.

I zipped my suitcase shut and left. Chapter 1 It was Memorial Day weekend—the weekend of my best friend's wedding.

I couldn't get a lastminute flight, so I had to beg Roman to drive me upstate. The moment we pulled up to the venue, Roman's jaw clenched. He dropped my hand like it burned him.

His gaze felt like ice against my skin. "What the hell is this, Maeve?" I knew exactly why the muscle in his jaw was ticking.

Roman was strictly antimarriage, and I had brought up tying the knot no less than ten times. He thought this was another ambush. Another setup for a proposal.

Before I could even open my mouth to defend myself, my best friend rushed over in her silk gettingready robe.

She blinked at Roman, the tension leaving her shoulders in a rush of relief. "You actually brought him! Perfect timing.

One of the groomsmen just bailed with a stomach bug, and I was panicking. Your guy can step right in." I shot Roman a cautious glance.

The man loathed weddings, let alone standing at the altar in a rented tux for someone else. But I wasn't about to ruin my best friend's big day.

Maybe he realized he'd jumped the gun with his accusations, because he cleared his throat and, miraculously, gave a stiff nod. She ushered us straight into the bridal suite.

I slipped into my bridesmaid dress while Roman was handed a spare suit. By the time hair and makeup finished with me, the ceremony was starting.

My best friend floated down the aisle in a stunning white gown, and I trailed behind her with the bridal party. During the vows, she practically sobbed through her mascara.

Then came the bouquet toss. She stood at the front, catching my eye with a blatant wink.

Before my brain could even register the cue, a bundle of white peonies landed squarely in my chest. The crowd erupted. Cheering and whistling echoed across the reception hall.

A group of groomsmen shoved Roman forward until he was standing right in front of me. "Kiss her! Kiss her!" someone chanted.

Under the venue lights, the dark, stormy look had returned to Roman's face. He looked ready to murder someone.

My best friend leaned in, flashing him a bright smile. "Roman, Maeve has been waiting for five years. When are you finally putting a ring on it?" My stomach dropped.

I immediately stepped in, forcing a laugh to cut her off. "Soon, soon." After the reception wrapped up, she walked me to the car.

She grabbed my hand, lowering her voice. "Listen, he drove you here. He stood up there as a groomsman." "He's clearly not as antimarriage as he claims to be.

You need to use this momentum. Talk to him." She let out a long sigh. "You were the first one of us to get into a serious relationship.

We all thought you'd be the first to walk down the aisle.

Now we're all hitched, and you're the only one left." She squeezed my fingers. "Maeve, if Roman never plans on settling down, are you just going to drag this out forever?" On the drive back, her words echoed in my head on a relentless loop.

I stared out the passenger window at the blurring highway lines, my mind drifting back to the very first time I brought up marriage to Roman. It was three years ago.

We had just finished a marathon session between the sheets, and I was tangled in his arms, resting against his chest. "Roman," I had whispered into the dark room. "Let's get married." The second the words left my lips, my body went rigid.

Panic spiked my heart rate. In my head, that was a question the guy was supposed to ask. I opened my mouth to backtrack, to play it off as a joke—but he beat me to it.

His voice rumbled against my ear, flat and dismissive. "We're young, Maeve. There's no rush for a piece of paper." At the time, we had been together for two years.

I was twentyeight. Chapter 2 The second time we broached the Mword was two years ago. My mom had been blowing up my phone daily, threatening to set me up on blind dates.

We were eating takeout on the couch, and Roman noticed I was just pushing my food around the carton. He asked what was eating at me.

I looked up at him, my chest tight. "Roman, when are you going to fly home and meet my parents?

My mom is trying to set me up." He had always dodged meeting my folks, claiming the timing wasn't right. At the mention of them, the muscles in his jaw locked.

He dropped his chopsticks onto the coffee table and leveled a stare at me. "Maeve, we're young. There's no rush. Just give it a little more time, okay?" So I gave it another year.

A year where I brought up tying the knot more times than I could count. I actually proposed to him no less than ten times.

I went from being painfully flushed the first time to just owning the fact that it was the twentyfirst century and women could pop the question too.

The velvet box holding the engagement ring I bought him was practically worn smooth from me running my thumb over it. Even then, Roman wouldn't budge.

The tenth time, I was down on one knee in our living room, wearing a bridal veil I bought online.

He stared down at me, a muscle feathering in his cheek. "Maeve, I never told you this, but… I don't believe in marriage. I'm never getting married." He turned his back to me.

His voice was flat, but the words felt like a physical blow to the ribs. "If you're that desperate to get married, we should just break up now." All the air left my lungs.

We had been together for so long, and he had never once uttered the words 'antimarriage.' But looking at his rigid spine and the ice in his eyes when he glanced over his shoulder, a cold sweat broke out across my neck.

My stomach plummeted. He was actually going to walk out the door just because I wanted a ring. From the day we met to falling in love, it had been seven years.

Seven years of my life. I couldn't even process what my world would look like without him occupying half of it.

So, the second Roman took a step toward the hallway, my survival instincts kicked in. I scrambled up and threw my arms around him from behind, burying my face in his spine.

Hot tears soaked right through his cotton tshirt.

My hands gripped the fabric of his shirt so hard my knuckles turned white. "Roman, I won't push it anymore," I choked out, my throat burning. "We don't have to get married.

How we are right now… it's fine. It's perfectly fine." Roman froze for three agonizing seconds before turning around and pulling me into his chest.

He muttered into my hair that he didn't want his entire future trapped by a meaningless piece of paper.

He told me that if two people truly loved each other, a marriage certificate didn't change a damn thing. I bought it.

So I shoved the velvet ring box to the back of my closet, threw out the veil, and never brought up the Mword again. Until today. Back in the present, we were stuck in gridlock.

Rush hour traffic crawling bumpertobumper. Roman kept his eyes locked on the windshield, the silence inside the car so thick it was suffocating.

He hadn't said a single word since we left the venue. His knuckles were bonewhite on the steering wheel.

The second we stepped into his apartment, I dropped my purse on the entryway table and headed straight for the kitchen, falling back into our safe, mundane routine. "What do you want for dinner?" I called out over my shoulder.

No answer. I peeked around the corner. He was sitting on the edge of the couch, staring at the floor, his expression cast in stone. "Roman? Food?" I asked again.

He finally spoke, his voice dropping the temperature in the room by ten degrees. "Do you really think these cheap little stunts are going to pressure me into proposing, Maeve?" He looked up, his eyes practically pinning me to the wall. "I told you from day one I don't do the marriage thing.

If you're that desperate for a ring, we should just end this right now." Chapter 3 My hands froze midair, the ties of my apron slipping right through my fingers.

I stared blankly at the man I had spent the last five years loving. He stood up slowly, closing the distance between us.

The look in his eyes—it was unfiltered revulsion. "I just don't get it. Why are you so damn desperate to get hitched? Are you that terrified no one else will want you?

Did you honestly think dragging me to your best friend's wedding and having them breathe down my neck would make me cave?" "That I'd just magically agree to marry you?

Wake up, Maeve. Nothing is going to change my mind. I am never getting married." A hard lump lodged in my throat, choking off my air supply.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, forcing the moisture back from my eyes. "Roman, you've got it all wrong.

I only asked you to drive because the train tickets sold out—" "Enough! I don't want to hear it!" Roman snatched his jacket off the barstool. "We're done.

I can't give you the wedding you want." He didn't wait for a response. The front door slammed shut, rattling the frames on the wall. The apartment plunged into a deafening silence.

I stared at the deadbolt, a heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on my sternum. I didn't mean it like that. I wasn't desperate. I wasn't trying to force his hand.

I just wanted an answer. I thought I would break down. I thought I would scream. But when the ground falls out from under you, your body just forgets how to cry.

Roman didn't come home that night. I didn't blow up his phone with a dozen missed calls begging for forgiveness like every other fight we'd had.

I didn't draft paragraphs of desperate apologies. I just curled up under the duvet, staring at the ceiling as the ghosts of our past played out in the dark.

I expected to lie awake all night in a panic. Surprisingly, I slept like a rock.

The next morning, I woke up to a single text from him. [You have three days to move your stuff out.] I stared at the glowing screen for a long time.

Then, I locked the phone, set it facedown on the nightstand, and headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I ordered some takeout.

While I waited for the delivery guy, I started packing. I had accumulated a ridiculous amount of stuff. I moved in with Roman two years ago.

Back then, I thought I was going to live in this apartment forever. I thought this was my home.

So, whenever I bought something, I never once considered the logistics of having to pack it all up and leave. Clothes. Shoes. Bags. Skincare. Endless little knickknacks.

The more I packed, the more the clutter spread across the floor. Looking around, it hit me—every corner of this place was put together by my hands.

Surrounded by the sheer volume of my life, I stood in the middle of the living room, my legs rooted to the hardwood. A sharp knock at the door snapped me out of it.

The food was here. I forced my legs to move. I needed to eat. I couldn't pack up a life on an empty stomach. I spent the entire day boxing up my existence.

I left the TV on for background noise, methodically folding and taping in silence. As the sun dipped below the skyline, my phone buzzed. It was a local realtor.

She had found a few listings matching my criteria and wanted to know when I was free for a showing.

I looked up at the orange light bleeding through the floortoceiling windows. "Today," I said. I drove out to the addresses she pinned.

The first was a spacious threebedroom apartment, about fifteen hundred square feet, with great natural light. The second was a twobedroom unit on the seventh floor of a midrise.

The third was a minimalist twobedroom, all stark blackandwhite decor. I weighed my options and went with the first one.

It was a little big for just me, but considering the mountain of boxes waiting at Roman's place, I needed the square footage.

I signed the lease and wired the deposit that same night. Chapter 4 Roman kicked his feet up on the glass coffee table in the VIP room, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

Reid leaned in, eyeing him. "You guys actually done?" Roman let out a low scoff and knocked back the rest of his drink, swallowing the burn. "Just teaching her a lesson.

Let her sweat it out for a few days. Tricking me into going to a wedding just to force my hand?" "I don't get it.

Why the endless obsession with getting hitched?" Reid shook his head. "Don't push it too far, man.

If she actually packs up and leaves, where are you gonna go crying?" A smirk tugged at Roman's lips. "You don't get it. Maeve can't live without me.

Every time we 'break up,' who comes crawling back, begging me to stay?" He set the empty glass down. "I guarantee you, I'm about to get a novel of a text any second now." He pulled out his phone and tapped open his messages. 99+ notifications.

All workrelated. Not a single missed call from her in twentyfour hours. A prickle of unease scratched at the back of his neck. But he brushed it off.

She was just throwing a tantrum. Give it a few days, and she'd be back to writing her pathetic little apologies. The thought made him smile.

It wasn't that he didn't want to marry Maeve. He just didn't want to give in so easily. Next time. The next time she begged him to marry her, he'd say yes.

She'd probably cry tears of joy. I had no idea Roman was sitting around, waiting for an apology.

Over the next few days, I was either buried in lease paperwork or elbowdeep in moving boxes. He didn't even cross my mind.

It wasn't until the very last box was loaded out that I finally pulled out my phone. [I've moved all my stuff out.] Message failed to send.

A red exclamation mark popped up next to the text bubble. Roman had blocked me. It was his favorite little trick—a calculated, digital timeout designed to force me into submission.

I swept my gaze over the stripped, echoing apartment. I dropped my key on the entryway console. I walked out.

The living room in my new apartment also featured floortoceiling windows. I unpacked methodically, emptying cardboard boxes and organizing my life onto bare shelves.

It took two solid days of manual labor before the sterile space finally resembled a home.

My best friend texted me from the tail end of her honeymoon, checking in on the fallout. [Did he finally cave and say yes?] [We broke up.] My screen instantly lit up with an incoming call. "Maeve, what the hell?" Her voice spiked through the speaker. "What do you mean you broke up?" "He said he doesn't believe in marriage, and I'm apparently too desperate for a ring," I said, my tone perfectly even. "So, we're done." The second the words left my mouth, I froze.

I couldn't believe how clinically the sentence had slipped out.

In the past, the mere thought of losing Roman would send me spiraling into a fullblown panic attack, ready to track him down and beg for forgiveness. Time really was a funny thing.

It quietly ironed out all the agonizing desperation. Chapter 5 My best friend was out for blood. [Roman is a complete bastard.

If he didn't believe in marriage, why didn't he say so on day one? I never would have let you near him!] [What even is this?

Was he just stringing you along for five years?] [Don't waste tears on him, Maeve. Good riddance. The next one will treat you right!] [I'm sending you some contacts.

Guys who actually want to settle down!] My phone vibrated as a dozen digital business cards flooded my screen. [Pick your favorite.

Lock it down immediately and piss that loser off!] I let out a dry laugh, dragging my thumb across the screen to clear the notifications.

I had just clawed my way out of a deadend, fiveyear relationship. Jumping straight into the dating pool was the last thing on my mind.

In the past, every second of my day revolved around Roman's schedule. Now, I had twentyfour hours all to myself. It was time to figure out what the rest of my life looked like.

I used to be a freelance fiction writer. Roman always treated my writing like a cute, useless hobby, constantly reminding me that AI was going to replace my job anyway.

I had ridden the early wave of selfpublishing and made decent money back in the day, but the second Roman started making offhand, disparaging comments about it, I stopped drafting.

For the past few years, I coasted through a mindless corporate job just to pay the bills. Now, I finally had the oxygen to be myself again.

I put in my two weeks' notice, converted the spare bedroom into an office, and started plotting out new concepts. But the market had evolved.

After taking such a long hiatus, my first few pitches were met with swift rejections. Selfdoubt started creeping in.

To get a read on current trends, I joined a discord server for romance authors.

Barely five minutes after I introduced myself in the chat, a private message popped up. [You're writing again?] It was an old critique partner.

Because he was a guy, I had severed contact with him the minute Roman and I got serious. Roman's possessive streak hadn't allowed for male friends.

He sent a screenshot proving he was a lurker in the same discord group.

When I told him I was trying to break back into the industry, he gave me a full rundown of the current market landscape. I sent him my outline and the first ten thousand words.

We spent the entire day tearing the manuscript apart and putting it back together. The second we finalized the edits, a PDF contract landed in my inbox.

I stared at the screen. [What, you don't want to sign? I'm the EditorinChief at Firefox Books now. I acquire both male and femaletargeted fiction.] My jaw practically unhinged.

All those years ago, he used to call me the rising star of the platform. Now, he was running the place, and I was the washedup amateur begging for structural edits.

I signed the digital contract immediately and insisted on treating him to dinner. We met up at an upscale bistro downtown. Nolan hadn't changed much.

He still rocked a clean fade and a casual jacket.

The second he spotted me, he flashed a massive grin and waved his arm. "Over here!" We settled into a booth, trading industry gossip over steaks.

He told me he had kept grinding away at his backlist for years with mediocre results, until one of his books finally went viral last year.

He bought a house with the royalties and leveraged his track record to land the EditorinChief gig. He paused, resting his forearms on the table. "What about you?

You were with Roman for years, right?

Did you guys ever tie the knot?" I opened my mouth to say no. "Wow." A familiar, icecold voice sliced through the noise of the restaurant. "Barely out the door, and you're already on a blind date." Roman stopped at the edge of our table.

His gaze raked over Nolan, then pinned me down with disgust. "I told you you were desperate, Maeve." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Can't survive five minutes without a man?" Chapter 6 I didn't expect my first runin with Roman to be this trashy.

I opened my mouth to clarify the situation, but then my eyes caught the girl hovering just behind his shoulder.

She looked barely out of college, sporting a blunt bob and a pleated skirt that screamed schoolgirl cosplay.

Catching my gaze, a flash of pure, arrogant triumph crossed Roman's face. He yanked the girl flush against his side.

He tilted his chin at me. "Meet my new girlfriend, Layla." A nasty little smirk played on his lips. "She doesn't believe in marriage either." I knew exactly what game he was playing.

He wanted the meltdown. He wanted me to hyperventilate, cause a scene, and beg him to take me back.

In the past, the mere sight of another woman in his orbit would have sent me into full stagefive clinger mode. But right now?

Staring at his arm wrapped tightly around someone else, my pulse didn't even skip a beat. I just casually picked up my water glass. "Oh.

Congrats, then." The smirk wiped clean off Roman's face.

His jaw muscles jumped. "Congrats to you too," he snapped. "Make sure you send me an invite when you finally lock someone down." He leaned in a fraction, his voice dropping to a vicious hiss. "You desperate pickme." He practically chewed the words before spinning on his heel.

He dragged Layla away without looking back. Nolan winced, shooting me a look of pity across the table. "Shit. I'm sorry, I had no idea." I gave him a dismissive wave. "It's fine.

Ancient history." Nolan tapped his fork against his plate. "You know, you should write him into the manuscript. Channel all that garbage into your protagonist.

Readers eat that raw emotion up." I took his advice. I tweaked the timeline of my fiveyear trainwreck with Roman and bled it onto the page. The response was insane.

Three consecutive rounds of fivestar promotion on the app.

Nolan forwarded me the analytics dashboard, followed by a meme. [The prodigy is back!] [Took a break but you still haven't lost your touch.] Nolan told me the book was trending toward a massive breakout.

He told me to keep my foot on the gas. Since the breakup, Roman hadn't stepped foot back in the main apartment. He had a bachelor pad downtown.

Whenever he and Maeve got into a blowout, he'd crash there to prove a point. But today, leaving the office, his brain was fried. He basically blacked out behind the wheel.

When he finally threw the car in park, he looked up and realized his autopilot had driven him straight to their shared apartment building. His chest felt unusually tight.

His mind flashed back to the restaurant—to the dead, hollow look in Maeve's eyes. It wasn't the usual frantic panic she gave him during their fights.

But then he shook his head, gripping the steering wheel. They had been together for five years. The woman had literally begged him for a ring ten different times.

She worshipped the ground he walked on. There was zero chance she was actually walking away. She was bluffing. Yeah, that was it.

The second he unlocked the front door, she was going to throw herself at his chest.

She was going to cry, ruin her mascara, and beg him to forget the whole marriage thing, just like she always did. The thought steadied his pulse.

He grabbed his briefcase, slammed the car door, and headed for the lobby. But as the elevator crawled up to his floor, a cold sweat broke out along his spine.

The anxiety clawed at his throat. It felt like something vital was slipping right through his fingers, something he was going to regret losing for the rest of his miserable life.

He stood in front of his own front door, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had no idea why the hell he was so nervous. Maeve was obsessed with him.

She wouldn't just pack up and leave. This was just her playing hard to get, trying to win a power struggle.

If she was still pitching a fit, he'd just buy her some jewelry, sweettalk her a little, and put the marriage conversation to bed for good.

His thumb hovered over the biometric scanner. His hand was actually shaking. He pressed down. The lock clicked. The heavy door swung open. Suffocating darkness. Silence.

He reached out and slammed the palm of his hand against the light switch. The overhead bulbs flickered on, illuminating the space. All the air left his lungs