I did not cry. I walked to the stage, held out my open hand, and said quietly, “The key, please.” Brooke blinked, thrown by the calm in my voice. She dropped it into my palm out of pure reflex. “Then I’ll respect your choice,” I said, loud enough for the room to hear, and I turned and walked out past the frozen guests, past the cake, past the childhood photographs I had spent weeks arranging. Roman was smiling. He thought I had folded. He thought this was a tantrum that would pass by morning.

By midnight my phone lit up with Brooke’s messages, first confused, then angry, then demanding the car she had publicly disowned me to keep. I did not reply. Instead I drove to my office, unlocked the drawer, and lifted out the red folder I had assembled over eight quiet years. Inside was every document Roman had forgotten existed. The next morning I made three calls, and three days later, a moving truck pulled up outside the house he believed was his.