Chapter 2

On the third day of Julian’s week as man of the house, the Whitmores held a family dinner.

Vivian's mother texted me the time and told me to bring the Whitmore signet ring.

It was the ring she had placed on my finger herself on my wedding day.

It had belonged to Vivian's grandfather. There were no sons in Vivian's generation, so by family tradition, the ring went to the man who married the Whitmore heir.

But I knew her mother had never thought much of me.

If Vivian had not insisted on marrying me, that ring would never have ended up on my hand.

I remembered the first time I met her family at their house in Buckhead.

Her mother told a table full of relatives that I came from nothing and was not good enough for a Whitmore.

Vivian held my hand, her voice calm and firm.

"He's the man I love."

"Who I marry is not anyone else's decision."

Now, remembering that day only made me want to laugh.

I tightened my grip on the ring box.

Tonight would be a good time to give it back.

When I arrived, Julian was already sitting in my seat.

There was no place set for me.

The housekeeper had to bring in an extra chair and squeeze it in at the far end of the table.

Her mother smiled as she explained.

"Since Julian is trying out being part of the family this week, dinner should play along too."

"You're a grown man, Owen. Don't be so petty."

Vivian had also asked the kitchen to rework the menu around Julian's tastes.

I have a severe peanut allergy.

After seven years of marriage, there was still peanut brittle on the Whitmores' dessert table.

At first, Vivian reminded the staff. Later, she only told me to avoid it myself.

But Julian hated cilantro, and there had never been a single leaf of it on the Whitmores' table.

When a few flecks of it turned up in the soup, Vivian had it sent back to the kitchen immediately.

"The smell makes him sick."

She remembered what made Julian sick.

She could not remember what could put me in the hospital.

Last year was the first time they had put Julian in my seat.

When I walked out, Vivian came after me.

She said a chair did not mean anything.

Then she promised.

"That seat will always be yours."

This year, I was not even allowed to sit beside her.

Before the family portrait, her mother's eyes went to my right hand.

"Take the ring off."

"Let Julian wear it for a few minutes. The picture will look more complete."

"That doesn't seem right," Julian said.

But his eyes never left the ring, and his hand was already reaching for it.

Before I could say a word, Vivian took hold of my right hand and slowly worked the ring off.

The band scraped over my knuckle and left the skin red.

She only looked down to check whether the ring had been scratched.

Then she slid it onto Julian's right index finger herself.

"He'll get it back in seven days."

"It's just a ring. It isn't worth fighting over."

For the portrait, Julian stood beside Vivian.

Her parents sat in front.

I was placed at the very edge, almost out of the frame.

The photographer asked everyone to move in closer.

Vivian deliberately slipped her arm through Julian's.

Then she looked back at me.

She was waiting for me to stop her.

Instead, I turned to her mother.

"You don't need to give the ring back."

Her mother's expression changed.

"It's a harmless little game, and you have to say something like that and ruin it."

"Embarrassing your elders in front of everyone. You should know better."

A cousin who did not know what was going on posted the portrait in the family group chat.

Finally, everyone's here this year!

The other relatives began commenting on how good Julian and Vivian looked together.

Someone asked whether they were planning a wedding.

Her mother did not correct anyone.

She only reacted to the message with a heart.

I looked at the family group chat I had been part of for seven years.

Then I quietly left it.

Vivian noticed almost immediately.

She texted me.

[Nice act this time.]

[Let's see how long you can hold out.]

What she did not know was that I was not holding out.

I was taking back, piece by piece, every trace of myself I had ever left with the Whitmores.