We had been together for five years. We lived together. Shared a dog. Shared a mortgage. Everyone assumed we’d eventually get married — even us.

Until that day.

It was my sister’s engagement party. Sixty people, soft lights, a rooftop terrace in June. I was wearing a silk dress that stuck to my back from nerves. I had no idea why I felt so anxious.

Then it happened. He clinked a glass. Everyone turned.

He got down on one knee.

I froze.

Everyone gasped. His hand was shaking as he opened the ring box. I saw my mother grab her phone to film it.

He asked, “Will you marry me?”

It felt like the world had stopped moving. Like time stuttered.

I stared at him.

He was kind. Loyal. Funny. But I also knew about her.

Not just a fling. A three-month relationship with someone from his work. I found the texts two weeks ago. He never knew.

I hadn’t confronted him yet. I thought I needed time. Maybe forgiveness.

But at that moment, with 60 people waiting, expecting my smile and a yes — all I could do was whisper:

“No.”

The room went silent. Not even a cough. Just a thousand stares. Public proposal fail.

His eyes filled with confusion, then shame, then something harder to look at. Grief, maybe. Or guilt.

I walked out.

We’ve never spoken again.