The restaurant buzzed with stunned whispers as Nathaniel's words hung in the air. The confident declaration of "Juliana Johnson is my wife" echoed in my mind like a protective charm, an unexpected shield against years of Imogen's attacks.
I glanced at my hand, still intertwined with his. His thumb traced small circles on my skin, casual yet intimate. The diamond ring—which I'd previously considered just a prop—sparkled with new meaning under the restaurant lights.
But just as I was processing this surreal moment, Nathaniel's phone vibrated. His expression darkened as he checked the screen.
"I need to take this," he said, voice low and meant only for me. His eyes met mine, surprisingly apologetic. "Urgent business matter."
I nodded, trying to mask my disappointment. Of course something would interrupt this rare moment of public solidarity.
Nathaniel stood, commanding the room's attention without effort. "I apologize, but I must leave. Professor Wright, happy birthday once again."
