Chapter 8: The Signature He Expected Me to Give

I read the talent release three times.

My name was printed in the designated talent section.

My address was correct.

My email was correct.

Even my legal name was spelled exactly as it appeared on my driver's license.

Callum hadn't forgotten me.

He had prepared for me.

He had simply prepared for me without asking.

The document granted Reid Creative Studio broad commercial rights to footage featuring me during the engagement, wedding, and future family events connected to the campaign.

It wasn't a casual social media release.

It was a contract.

And my signature was the only thing missing.

I scrolled to the metadata.

The document had been created eleven days ago.

Modified six days ago.

Someone had already filled in every field except the signature.

I took screenshots.

Then I downloaded the original file and saved it to three separate folders.

I wasn't going to make the mistake of trusting my memory.

My phone rang.

Callum.

I let it ring once.

Twice.

Then I answered.

"Where are you?"

"Home."

"We need to talk."

"I know."

His voice softened.

"Maren, please don't make any decisions while you're angry."

"I'm not angry."

"Then come to Maine."

"No."

The silence that followed was almost comical.

He had expected resistance.

He hadn't expected certainty.

"What do you mean, no?"

"I mean I'm not coming."

"You can't just abandon the engagement because a production plan got messy."

"This isn't about a production plan anymore."

I opened the contract on my laptop.

"Why did you prepare a talent release using my name?"

He went quiet.

"What release?"

"The one you sent to your business partner six days ago."

"Maren—"

"Don't lie to me again."

His breathing changed.

"You went through my business email?"

"No. You left the document in a shared project folder."

That wasn't entirely true.

But I wasn't interested in explaining how I'd found it.

"The contract covers our engagement, wedding, and future family events."

"It's standard language."

"Standard for whom?"

"For production companies."

"Not for couples who haven't agreed to turn their private lives into commercial content."

"You would have signed it."

"You don't know that."

"I know you."

That sentence made something inside me go completely still.

Seven years together, and he was still talking about me like I was a predictable business variable.

"No, Callum."

"You knew I'd sign because you knew I'd trust you."

He didn't answer.

I continued.

"That's the part you misunderstood."

"You didn't earn my trust by knowing how to use it."

His voice became sharper.

"You're acting like I was trying to steal from you."

"You were trying to profit from me without my consent."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"The studio would have paid for the production."

"And you would have made money from the campaign."

"So would you."

"I never agreed to participate."

"You were going to be my wife."

I stared at the screen.

There it was again.

He kept using our future as if it gave him ownership over my present.

"Being your wife wouldn't make my consent automatic."

Callum exhaled heavily.

"Fine. I'll terminate the campaign."

"You already said that."

"I'll do it properly this time."

"And the contract?"

"I'll destroy it."

"Send me written confirmation."

He paused.

"You really don't trust me anymore, do you?"

"No."

The word came out effortlessly.

He hung up.

I sat there in silence.

A few minutes later, an email arrived.

From Callum.

Attached was a cancellation notice from Reid Creative Studio.

Campaign suspended.

Talent release voided.

All unused footage to be archived.

I should have felt relieved.

Instead, one sentence caught my attention.

All footage already published remains subject to existing commercial agreements.

I opened the studio's social media page.

The hometown videos were still there.

The teaser was still there.

The brisket video was still there.

And the comments were multiplying.

People were congratulating Callum and Delaney.

Some were asking when the wedding was.

Others were calling them the cutest couple they'd seen all year.

I closed the page.

Then another notification appeared.

This one came from my bank.

A transaction had been attempted on the business card I shared with Callum for household expenses.

Declined.

I frowned.

I hadn't used the card.

I opened the transaction details.

The attempted purchase was from a luxury jewelry store in Portland.

The amount was $18,700.

My pulse quickened.

Callum had always said he hated unnecessary jewelry.

Then I remembered something.

The proposal.

The ring Delaney had mentioned.

He had one.

And apparently, he had tried to buy something else.

Something expensive.

Something he expected to charge to an account we both used.

I immediately froze the card.

Then I checked the joint account.

There was another pending transaction.

A hotel reservation.

Two nights.

Portland.

Two guests.

Check-in scheduled for tomorrow.

I stared at the screen.

Callum wasn't planning to come home alone.