The Strict Fiance

In the mirror, I wore a perfectly tailored dress, the waist cinched just so, the hem cascading in arcs—three years of etiquette training engraved into my very bones. The moment the door was pushed open, I instinctively straightened my spine. Kevin Luke entered, his gaze sweeping over me with not a trace of warmth in his eyes. "Stand as straight as you like, but the arrogance in your bones cannot be concealed." His voice was as cold as ice, chilling my fingertips numb. I clenched the hem of my dress tightly, my fingertips turning white. Since childhood, praise had never ceased around me, yet in his eyes, it was all evidence of being 'insufficiently virtuous and gentle.' "The future Mrs. Luke does not need a merely tempting appearance." He placed a glass of warm water before me, his tone oppressive and beyond question. I raised the glass of water, carefully concealing the tremor in my fingertips. For three years, from the way I stood and sat to the tone of my voice and the rhythm of my eating, I reformed everything according to his demands. We changed etiquette teachers three times; each praised my swift progress, yet he alone remained perpetually critical. "At the last family banquet, you revealed eight teeth when you smiled." He sat on the sofa, legs crossed, his posture languid yet suffused with an oppressive aura. "Too flamboyant—lacking in proper decorum." I set down the glass and softly replied, "I understand. I will be more careful next time." We have repeated that conversation countless times. In the end, he even said, "If you still can't manage this, then there's no point in continuing with this engagement." He has said it far too many times. At first, I panicked and tried even harder to please him, but over time, all that remained was endless exhaustion. That night, he once again flew into a rage simply because I exchanged a few words with a male colleague. "Quincy Scott, can't you just behave yourself?" He pointed at me, his tone thick with impatience. "Look at Yvonne; she is exactly how a woman should be." Yvonne Lincoln, forever his ideal—a gentle, reserved woman who spoke softly and never once contradicted him. I gazed upon his furious face and was suddenly overwhelmed by a profound sense of estrangement. "Kevin Luke," I said, my voice so calm it surprised even myself. "Let us break off the engagement." The air instantly thickened; the blaze of anger froze on his face as he stared at me in disbelief: "What did you say?" "I said, break off the engagement." I repeated myself resolutely. "I will not marry you." He sprang to his feet abruptly; the teacup on the coffee table toppled, spilling water across the floor. "Quincy Scott, do you dare threaten me?" He gripped my wrist with such force it felt as though he might crush my bones. I frowned in pain but did not struggle; instead, I looked at him and said, "This is not a threat—this is my solemn decision." "You are utterly unreasonable!" He flung my hand away with savage force. "Who else but me would want a rebellious woman like you? Yvonne is a hundred times better—at least she knows how to obey." I stared at his ferocious expression, and the last trace of affection in my heart dissolved like smoke. Turning back to the room, I locked the door and leaned against it. I did not cry; only a lightness, a relief following release. I refuse to sink any deeper into this endless internal strife.