Page 54 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Cassie

The Anniversary Ambush

" I s tonight the night?" Mia's voice crackles through my phone speaker, her excitement making her sound even younger than her nineteen years.

I adjust my diamond earrings, Camden's Christmas gift from last year.

The tiny stones catch the light as I try not to sound as nervous as I feel. "Would you stop? He hasn't said anything about proposing."

"Um, hello? Two-year anniversary at Velluto? The restaurant where you had your first date? The place that's impossible to get into unless you book, like, six months in advance?"

"Maybe he just wants to celebrate," I say, but my stomach flutters as I smooth down my dress—a splurge from Nordstrom that cost nearly half my rent. The deep emerald complements my eyes, and the cut is classic but with just enough curve-hugging to make Camden give me that look I love.

"Right. And maybe I'll get straight A's without studying." Mia laughs. "Look, I've been sending him ring photos for months. If he doesn't propose tonight, he's officially clueless."

"You've been doing what?" My mascara nearly slips from my fingers. "Mia! He's going to think we're crazy."

"No, he's going to think you're worth it. Now, are you wearing the lingerie set I got you for your birthday?"

Heat rushes to my cheeks. "I am not discussing that with my baby sister."

"That's a yes! Good girl. Look, just promise you'll call me the second you get home. I don't care how late it is."

"I promise." I smile at my reflection. "Did you finish that design I helped you with? The one with the asymmetrical?—"

"Yes, and I'm sending it to my professor tomorrow, but forget about my homework for one night! This is your night! Mr. Perfect Jawline is finally going to make an honest woman out of you."

I glance at the time. "I've got to finish getting ready. Love you."

"Love you too. And don't forget—call me tonight!"

I set down the phone and lean closer to the bathroom mirror. I've spent an hour on my makeup, going for elegance over drama.

Camden always says he prefers my "natural beauty," but I know what that really means—nothing too bold, nothing that would stand out at the restaurant full of tasteful, moneyed patrons.

The bathroom mirror reflects a version of myself I barely recognize. My dark hair falls in carefully styled waves past my shoulders, each strand smoothed to perfection.

The smoky eye makeup makes my green eyes look larger, more dramatic than usual.

Classic elegance. The kind Camden prefers.

I practice my surprised face, just in case. Too wide-eyed? Maybe. Too calm? Definitely. Just the right amount of emotion without looking like I've been expecting it? Perfect.

Our shared apartment feels oddly quiet as I gather my clutch.

Two years living together, and sometimes I still feel like a visitor.

The sleek gray sofa that's beautiful but never quite comfortable.

The carefully curated bookshelves with first editions Camden collects.

The minimalist decor that leaves no room for the colorful, eclectic pieces I used to love.

My phone pings with a text from Camden:

Running 10 minutes late. Order me the usual.

No "I love you." No cute emoji. Just instructions.

When did that start to seem normal?

I send back a thumbs-up and head out, my heels clicking against the hardwood floors that Camden insisted on when we moved in together. "Carpets trap dust and memories," he'd said, as if both were equally undesirable.

Velluto hasn't changed since our first date. Still impossibly romantic with its dim lighting and plush velvet booths, still filled with the soft murmur of expensive conversations and the gentle clink of crystal glasses.

The ma?tre d' recognizes me. "Ms. Monroe. Wonderful to see you again. Mr. Sullivan called to say he's running slightly behind. Your table is ready whenever you are."

I follow him to our usual booth, tucked away in a corner that feels both private and perfectly positioned to see and be seen. I order Camden's usual martini and a glass of champagne for myself—a small rebellion. Tonight feels like a champagne night.

Halfway through my drink, Camden arrives in a flurry of expensive cologne and apologies.

"Traffic was a nightmare." He leans down to kiss my cheek rather than my lips. "You look nice."

Nice. Not beautiful or stunning. Just nice.

Camden slides into the booth, immediately checking his phone. "Did you order for me?"

"Your martini should be here any second. I didn't order food yet."

"Perfect." He loosens his tie slightly—a rare concession to comfort from a man who wears bespoke suits like armor. "How's Mia? Still drowning in student debt for that fashion degree?"

His tone makes me bristle. "She's doing great, actually. Her professor selected one of her designs for the department showcase."

"Hmm." Camden sips his martini, which appeared as if summoned. "I hope she has a backup plan. The fashion industry isn't exactly known for its stability."

I swallow my defensive response. Not tonight. Tonight is supposed to be special.

"Let's not talk about Mia," I say instead, reaching across the table to touch his hand. "It's our anniversary."

"Of course." He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Two years. Time flies."

The waiter appears, reciting the evening's specials with practiced elegance. Camden orders for both of us without consulting me—another habit I've stopped noticing months ago.

As the waiter departs, Camden reaches into his jacket pocket. My heart leaps into my throat. This is it. The moment Mia predicted. The velvet box. The question. The beginning of forever.

Instead, he pulls out his phone and places it on the table beside his plate.

"I'm expecting an important email," he explains. "The Sullivan account is on the verge of signing."

"On our anniversary dinner?" The words slip out before I can stop them.

Camden's expression hardens slightly. "Some of us have partners to impress."

The barb lands precisely where intended. Camden made senior associate last year. I'm still trying to find my footing after my previous design firm downsized.

"I didn't mean?—"

"It's fine," he cuts me off. "Let's just enjoy dinner."

But something has shifted in the air between us, like the first warning crackle before a storm. Camden barely looks at me throughout the appetizer, his attention divided between his phone and the restaurant's other patrons. I find myself watching his face, searching for clues to his mood.

Have I ruined the moment? Will he still propose?

When the sommelier arrives with an expensive bottle of champagne that Camden has apparently pre-ordered, hope flutters back to life in my chest.

"A special occasion deserves the proper celebration," Camden says as our glasses are filled.

I smile, my fingertips tingling with anticipation. This is it. The champagne. The romantic setting. The significant look in Camden's eyes.

He raises his glass. "To us."

"To us," I echo, taking a sip of bubbles that taste like promise.

Camden sets down his glass with deliberate care, then folds his hands on the table. "Cassie, there's something I need to say."

My heart pounds so loudly I'm certain the entire restaurant can hear it. I manage a small nod, already rehearsing my surprised-but-not-too-surprised expression.

"These past two years have been... significant. You've been a supportive, stable presence during an important phase of my career."

Supportive. Stable. Not exactly passionate.

"But I've been doing a lot of thinking lately," Camden continues, his voice shifting into the same tone he uses when laying out case law to junior associates. "About what I want, where I'm headed. About the kind of partner I need beside me."

The word "need" hangs in the air between us. Not want. Not love. Need.

"And the thing is, Cassie..." He pauses, reaching out to take my hand in what feels like a practiced gesture. "I've outgrown us."

The words don't register at first. They bounce off my champagne-buzzed brain like hail against a window.

"What?" I finally manage.

"You're comfortable, Cassie. Predictable." His thumb brushes over my knuckles in a gesture that suddenly feels condescending rather than comforting. "I need someone who pushes boundaries—professionally and..." his eyes flicker over my body, "personally."

The restaurant seems to tilt around me. The romantic lighting now feels like a cruel joke, the champagne sour in my stomach.

"You're breaking up with me?" I hate how small my voice sounds. "On our anniversary?"

Camden at least has the decency to look slightly uncomfortable. "I thought it would be better to do this somewhere different rather than at home. Give you space to process."

"How thoughtful," I say, surprised by the sharp edge in my voice. "Did you also think it would be better to wait until I'd spent half my paycheck on this dress? Or until Mia spent weeks helping me pick out lingerie for tonight?"

He winces. "Let's not make a scene."

"A scene," I repeat. My eyes burn, but I refuse to cry. Not here. Not in front of him. "Were you ever going to propose? Or was that just something I made up in my head?"

Camden shifts in his seat, his discomfort growing. "Marriage was never really on the table for us, Cassie. I thought you understood that."

The realization hits me like a physical blow. He never saw me as forever material. All those hints he brushed off. All those conversations about the future he redirected.

"I think I should go," I say, reaching for my clutch.

"Don't be dramatic. At least finish dinner." His tone suggests he's being exceptionally reasonable. "We're adults. We can handle this maturely."

I notice him reaching into his pocket again and feel a fresh wave of disbelief as he pulls out a travel-sized toothbrush—my toothbrush from our bathroom—and sets it on the table between us.

"I packed a few of your things," he says, not quite meeting my eyes. "I thought it might be easier if you stayed with Olivia tonight while you... adjust."

He's planned this down to the smallest detail. Probably has for weeks. While I've been daydreaming about proposals, he's been choreographing our breakup.

Something cold and clarifying sweeps through me, washing away the shock and hurt. I stand up, smoothing my dress with hands that barely tremble.

"You know what, Camden? You're right." I pick up the toothbrush and drop it into my clutch. "You have outgrown us. But not in the way you think."

He blinks, clearly thrown by my sudden composure.

"I've spent two years dimming my light for you. Making myself smaller. Safer. More palatable to your sophisticated tastes." I pick up my champagne glass and drain it in one unladylike gulp. "So thank you for setting me free before I forgot who I really am."

"Cassie—"

"Don't worry about my things. I'll arrange to have them picked up." I step away from the table. "Oh, and Camden? She's going to bore you too, eventually. Once she figures out what you really want is just a prettier reflection of yourself."

I turn and walk out of the restaurant with my head high, feeling the stares of other diners like pinpricks on my skin. The ma?tre d' looks alarmed as I pass, but I manage a tight smile that keeps him from approaching.

It isn't until I reach the parking lot that I allow myself to stop, leaning against my car as the cool night air hits my flushed face. With trembling fingers, I pull out my phone and pull up Camden's contact.

My thumb hovers over his name for one heartbeat, two, then decisively presses delete.

The screen asks for confirmation: Delete this contact?

"Yes," I whisper, pressing the button as the first tear escapes. "Yes, I absolutely fucking do."

Only when his number has vanished do I allow the sobs to come, alone in my car with the dress that cost too much and the lingerie no one will see, mourning not just the relationship I've lost but the one I thought I had all along.