Arthur tensed beside me. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.
Richard scoffed. “We went through her things last night. And we found **this.**” He pulled out a manila envelope and threw it onto the kitchen counter.
I glanced at Arthur, confused, before slowly reaching for it. My hands trembled as I opened it—and my breath caught.
Inside were printed screenshots of **my bank statements.**
Arthur’s mother folded her arms. “A **secret** bank account with thousands of dollars tucked away. Why would a future wife hide money from her husband?”
Arthur’s jaw clenched. “You went through her personal files?”
Evelyn ignored him, turning to me. “Clearly, you don’t trust our son. A woman who keeps financial secrets before the wedding is bound to betray him later.”
I felt my face burn—not from guilt, but from **rage.**
I took a deep breath. “I **do** have a separate account. And do you know why?” I met their judgmental gazes head-on. “Because of **exactly this.** This kind of control. This kind of invasion. This kind of assumption that I, as a wife, would have no independence.”
Evelyn gasped, scandalized. Richard sneered. “So you admit it. You were planning to keep secrets.”
Arthur’s voice cut through like steel. “Enough.” He stepped forward, glaring at his parents. “Her money is **her business.** If she has a separate account, so what? That doesn’t mean she doesn’t trust me—it means she values herself. And I respect that.”
Evelyn sputtered. “But—”
“No,” Arthur snapped. “You **broke into** our room. You went through her things. And now, because she has money of her own, you’re throwing a tantrum?”
Richard shook his head. “You’re making a mistake, son. We won’t support this marriage.”
Arthur looked at me, then back at them. His voice was calm but firm. “Then don’t. But we’re still getting married. And when we do, don’t bother coming back into our lives.”
Evelyn gasped. “You don’t mean that!”
“I do,” Arthur said simply.
With nothing left to say, his parents stormed out, their suitcases rolling behind them.
I turned to Arthur, searching his face. “Are you sure?”
He pulled me into a tight embrace. “One hundred percent. I’m marrying **you,** not them.”
And at that moment, I knew—I had chosen the **right** man.