How to be loved

76 - NO!

How to be loved

76 – NO!

Freen's POV

"Freen," he said, my name falling from his lips like a quiet prayer, low and reverent. "Will you marry my daughter?"

The world stopped.

Not slowed. Stopped.

Like a record scratch in the middle of a song. Like the silence after a gunshot.

Air drained from the room, and with it, all my thoughts. My chest tightened, lungs refusing to inflate. My heart thundered against my ribs, hard and frantic, like it was trying to claw its way out of me. I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't even blink.

Did he just...?

Of all the moments I'd let myself imagine—Becky getting down on one knee with shaking hands, or me blurting it out clumsily between laughter and tears—I never, not even in my most desperate hopes, imagined this.

Her father.

The man who once looked through me like I wasn't worth seeing. The man who stood beside Amanda and said nothing while Becky cried. The man who let us fall apart in silence.

Now, he was offering me his daughter like a blessing.

I turned to Becky, needing—needing—to see her, to understand what this moment meant to her. Her silence, her stillness—it scared me.

She was frozen.

Too still, like a painting caught mid-breath.

But her eyes—they betrayed everything. Glassy, wide, swimming with something volatile. Not just shock. No, something deeper. Wounded. Wild. I saw hope, flickering like a candle in the wind. But also fear. And heartbreak. And fury. A storm she hadn't chosen, but couldn't stop.

Then—

"No."

It came out like a snap of a live wire—soft but deadly.

"No!" she cried again, louder now, shaking. Her voice cracked open, raw with pain. "How could you?"

The sound of her voice was thunder. It echoed off the walls, off my ribs, off every memory I had of her being held back, silenced, abandoned.

"Becky..." her father said her name softly, a warning, or maybe a plea.

"I said no!" she barked, her palm slamming against the table. Silverware jumped. "She will not marry me."

The room trembled. My insides trembled.

I stood there, stunned, hollowed out. "Becky..." I whispered, her name like glass in my throat.

She pushed back her chair so hard it shrieked across the floor. Then she stood, shoulders squared but trembling.

"We're done talking."

She didn't even spare him a glance. Her eyes were locked on mine now, blazing and wet and impossible to read.

"Let's go, Freen."

I blinked, dazed. The moment stung like a slap. My body moved before my mind did, but even standing was a struggle. My knees buckled. I stumbled, hands catching the edge of the table like it might anchor me.

Nothing felt real.

Nothing felt right.

What just happened?

Why was she so furious?

Was it at him—for daring to make something so sacred feel transactional? Or was it... at me? For standing there, silent, stunned, useless?