On the morning his life came unglued, Edgar Mason was arguing about love in a Starbucks line in downtown Denver, tossing sugar packets into his coffee like he was seasoning reality itself.

“You’re kidding,” he said, staring at his best friend. “Tell me you’re kidding. You have two degrees, Paul. Two. And you’re really going to marry some country girl who probably thinks LinkedIn is a brand of shampoo?”

Paul laughed, unbothered as usual. He leaned on the counter, tie loosened, hair still windblown from the Colorado air.

“She’s not ‘some country girl,’” he said. “Her name is Molly. She’s kind, she’s hard-working, she can cook like a dream, and she doesn’t care how many diplomas I have stuck on my mom’s wall.”

The barista called their names. Paul grabbed his latte; Edgar took his plain black coffee, the cheapest thing on the menu, as usual.

“In fact,” Paul added, giving him a pointed look, “that might be why I love her. She cares about people, not résumés.”

Edgar took a gulp of coffee and winced. “I’m just saying, you could have married someone who understands what you do for a living. Someone who can handle a conversation about investment portfolios, not just chicken feed.”

Paul shook his head, amused. “You know what you need?” he asked. “To get out of your bubble. You’ve been working in that glass office too long. Your brain is fogged with spreadsheets.”

“I like my spreadsheets,” Edgar said, slightly offended. “Spreadsheets pay the bills.”

“Spreadsheets don’t hug you when you’re exhausted,” Paul shot back. “And they don’t make you soup when you’re sick. And they definitely don’t look at you like you’re the only person in the world when you walk into a room.”

Edgar smirked. “Yeah, yeah. You’re in love. It’s contagious. I’m almost getting hives.”

Paul ignored him. “You’re coming to the wedding,” he said. “No excuses. It’s in three weeks.”

“Where? Here in Denver?” Edgar asked. “Some nice rooftop place? I’ve got a suit ready.”

Paul’s grin widened. “Nope. In Molly’s hometown. Little village about an hour and a half from here, way off the interstate. Population: cows. Maybe a few horses. Definitely a dog with one ear.”

Edgar blinked. “You’re joking.”

“We’re doing it the way her family has always done it,” Paul said proudly. “Big tables right down the middle of the main street. Everyone in town invited. Kids running around, someone’s uncle playing guitar, old ladies bringing casseroles. Dancing until midnight. Maybe longer. Zero rooftop. Zero DJ.”

“That sounds like something from a reality show,” Edgar said. “Are you at least having it in a restaurant for part of it?”

“Nope,” Paul said cheerfully. “No restaurant. No event planner. Just people. And homemade food. And a ton of noise. I told you, man—this is going to be an adventure.”

He clapped Edgar on the shoulder. “You’re invited. You’d better come. I want you to see what a real wedding looks like.”

Edgar shook his head, though a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. “Fine. I’ll come. I wouldn’t miss this circus for anything. Just promise me the sheriff won’t show up to break up a fight.”

“That depends on you,” Paul said, laughing. “Don’t insult anyone’s casserole, and you’ll be safe.”

Three weeks later, Edgar drove out of Denver in his silver sedan with a wrapped gift on the passenger seat and a bouquet of supermarket flowers rolling around in the back, because Edgar refused to spend extra money for a florist’s work when he could tie a ribbon himself.

He turned off the interstate when the navigation told him to, trading freeway signs for narrow county roads lined with wooden fences and dusty fields. The mountains faded into the distance behind him; the sky opened up ahead, pale blue with a hint of summer heat.

“Turn left,” the navigation voice said.

He turned left.

“Turn right,” the voice said.

He turned right.

Then, halfway down a gravel road, the GPS froze. The little blue arrow stopped moving. The screen flickered, then reset, and suddenly he was in the middle of tan nowhere with a blinking message: SIGNAL LOST.

“Perfect,” Edgar muttered, pulling to the side.

He got out and stood in the gravel, dust puffing around his polished shoes. The road stretched ahead and behind him, empty. To the right lay a field dotted with hay bales. To the left, a narrow lane curved down toward a cluster of houses that looked like they’d been dropped there fifty years ago and never updated.

He frowned, then shrugged. People lived here. People had to know where Molly’s town was.

He drove slowly down the lane until the houses came into view: small, weathered homes with porches, clotheslines, and flowerpots. There was no sign at the entrance. No “Welcome to _______” like there was in every official town. It felt like a place the map had forgotten.

He parked near the first house and stepped out, straightening his shirt. The air smelled like cut grass and something sweet—maybe baked bread.

The village moved around him, but at a distance. A kid on a bike sped past at the far end of the lane. An older man disappeared into a shed. A dog barked once and went silent.

“Excuse me!” Edgar called, but his voice felt small in the wide, open quiet.

He was about to get back in the car when a door creaked open a few houses down.

A young woman stepped out, balancing a metal bucket of milk with one hand.

She froze for a fraction of a second when she saw the car, and then her gaze moved to him—city shoes, crisp shirt, watch he’d saved two months to buy—and she smiled.

“Hi,” she said, setting the bucket down. Her voice had a soft Western lilt. “You lost?”

Edgar stared at her for a moment longer than he meant to.

She looked about twenty-five, maybe twenty-six. Dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands drifting around her face. Slim, long-legged, wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt that had seen better days but still somehow looked right on her. There was nothing fancy about her, but she held herself like she belonged exactly where she was, no apologies.

“Yes,” he said quickly, realizing he’d been silent too long. “Sorry. I’m—uh—I’m trying to get to a village called Maple Ridge. There’s a wedding today.”

Her face brightened. “Maple Ridge? Ah. Yeah, you missed the turnoff.” She stepped closer, wiping her hands on a towel thrown over her shoulder. “You drove past the big crossroads back there. You need to go back, turn right at the four-way intersection with the red mailbox on the corner, then keep going about a mile. You’ll see the sign.”

“A red mailbox,” he repeated, trying to lock the landmark in his mind. “Got it. Thank you.”

He hesitated. “I’m Edgar.”

“Alice,” she said.

He couldn’t help it; he smiled. “Nice to meet you, Alice.”

“Same,” she replied. “Sorry I can’t talk longer. I’ve got to get this milk to the farm before it gets too warm.”

“You’re a milkmaid?” he asked before he could filter the surprise out of his tone.

She laughed. “My mom is. She works at the dairy farm just outside town. I help her when I can. Someone’s got to keep the cows in line.”

The way she said it, light and matter-of-fact, made him feel a little foolish.

“Right. Well, thanks again,” he said. “I’d still be driving in circles if it weren’t for you.”

“Do you remember the directions?” she asked. “Back to the crossroads, turn right at the red mailbox, then just keep going straight. First real town you see is Maple Ridge. You’ll hear it before you see it, actually, if the wedding’s already started.”

He nodded. “I’ll find it.”

“Good. I really need to be going,” she said, and in one smooth motion she lifted the heavy bucket as if it weighed nothing, cradling it at her hip. “Enjoy the wedding.”

Before he could think of something else to say, she walked away, easy and strong, toward the road leading out of the nameless little village.

For a second, Edgar found himself staring after her, wondering what it would be like to live a life where walking down a dusty lane in the country felt enough.

Then he shook himself. Small-town daydreams weren’t his thing. He had a job in a glass tower in Denver and a retirement plan that lived in an Excel file.

He got back in the car, turned around, and followed Alice’s directions.

She’d been right. He heard Maple Ridge before he saw it.

Music spilled into the air first—fiddles, laughter, the distant clink of glasses—then the houses crowded closer to the road. A “Welcome to Maple Ridge” sign leaned at a crooked angle near a cluster of mailboxes. Cars lined the shoulders of the narrow street, and folding tables stretched right down the middle of town, laid out with plastic tablecloths and bowls of food that made his stomach growl.

Paul was waiting near a pickup truck decorated with ribbons and hand-painted hearts, grinning like a man who’d managed to sneak happiness past the universe without getting caught.

“You made it!” Paul yelled over the noise as Edgar climbed out. “Thought you’d bailed.”

“Your navigation link tried to kill me,” Edgar said. “But a girl named Alice saved your wedding.”

“Alice?” Paul asked. “From…where?”

“Unnamed village, three miles that way,” Edgar said, pointing back. “I’ll introduce you later. You owe her a slice of cake.”

Paul clapped him on the back. “We’ll see. Right now, we’ve got a job to do.”

“A job?” Edgar repeated, wary.

“We’re going to get the bride,” Paul said. “But not in the way you’re used to, city boy. Around here, the groom and his friends walk through town, house to house, and everybody makes them work for it.”

“That sounds exhausting,” Edgar muttered.

“That sounds fun,” Paul corrected. “And important. Tradition. Come on.”

They set off down the street, a growing crowd of friends and cousins and neighbors falling in around them. Kids trailed behind, shrieking with delight. Old men in baseball caps chuckled and nudged each other. Women leaned over backyard fences, already holding out trays and bottles.

Every house was a little play.

At the first, an older woman with a braid down her back stood at the door, blocking their way.

“You looking for a bride?” she demanded.

“Yes, ma’am,” Paul said, playing along. “I hear she lives somewhere around here.”

“Maybe she does,” the woman said. “But why should we give her to you? You look skinny. Can you lift her when she’s tired?”

The crowd roared with laughter.

“He’ll feed me,” Molly’s voice called from somewhere inside, sending another wave of giggles through the group.

The woman held out a tray with three small glasses of strong home-made liquor. “Then let your friends prove they can handle our hospitality,” she said. “If they pass, maybe we’ll tell you where she is.”

Edgar took a glass, trying not to cough as the clear liquid burned his throat. The groom took the smallest sip and handed the rest off to a cousin. Another friend knocked two back like water. By the time they managed to “earn” directions to the next yard, Edgar was already light-headed.

Each house had a joke waiting.

At one, a teenage girl in a veil and a sequined dress came out, pretending to be the bride. “Final sale, no returns,” her mother called, making the entire yard hoot as Paul spluttered.

At another, a man tried to trade them a cow instead of a bride. “Good milk, no backtalk,” he promised. “Think about it.”

At yet another, a group of old men chased them away with brooms, laughing so hard they almost fell over.

At every doorstep, someone pressed another drink into the groomsmen’s hands. Paul did his best to sip politely and pass the glasses to others. Edgar, roped into being the designated “taster,” swallowed more than he intended.

By the time they finally reached the bride’s house, the small crowd had grown into a full-blown parade. Someone had found a drum; someone else had brought out a guitar. The whole of Maple Ridge seemed to be following them.

At the last gate, there was an official “ransom.” Molly’s younger cousins barred the way, arms folded, demanding cash, candy, and promises of future favors before they’d let the groom in to see his bride.

Edgar watched, tipsy and unexpectedly moved, as Paul finally stepped into the small farmhouse living room and saw Molly in her simple lace dress, cheeks flushed, eyes shining.

They stared at each other for half a heartbeat, like they’d forgotten anyone else existed, and then everyone cheered at once.

An hour later, Paul and Molly were husband and wife, rings on fingers, paperwork signed by a local judge brought in for the occasion. The wedding poured itself out into the street afterward, filling the tables with plates and the air with music.

The celebration in Maple Ridge lasted two days.

Edgar remembered it later like a dream: sunlight flashing on glass bottles, children asleep in their parents’ laps while a fiddle played, Molly’s grandmother wiping away tears, Paul dancing barefoot with a kid on his shoulders, the mayor of the next town over arm-wrestling Molly’s cousin while people bet with coins and cookies.

On the third day, exhausted guests slept wherever they could—on spare beds, on couches, in cars parked along the dirt road. That afternoon, Edgar rode back to Denver with Paul and Molly in a car that still smelled like hay and perfume and homemade pie.

Two months later, Edgar was back in his usual life: office, home, gym, occasional drinks with coworkers. The wedding felt far away, a bright, noisy bubble in a life otherwise neatly organized and controlled.

He thought about Alice more than he wanted to admit.

Sometimes, when he sat alone in his quiet apartment, his mind drifted back to that nameless village and that girl with the milk bucket who’d pointed him toward Maple Ridge like it was nothing.

He should have asked for her number, he thought. At least her last name. Something. Instead, he’d driven away, assuming the world would hand him another chance if he needed it.

There was a reason he kept thinking about her, though.

It wasn’t just that she was pretty. Edgar wasn’t a teenager; he’d seen plenty of faces in Denver bars and downtown coffee shops. No, it was something else—a steadiness, a straightforwardness, a sense that she knew exactly who she was and didn’t need anyone’s permission.

In his head, he built a whole life around her.

It wasn’t entirely conscious at first. It started small: a random thought about what kind of soup she might make on a cold day, or how she probably piled laundry neatly on a chair instead of leaving it in the dryer for three days like most women he knew in the city.

Over time, the mental movie got more detailed.

He pictured Alice in a simple kitchen, apron tied around her waist, hair in a messy bun as she stirred something fragrant on the stove. He imagined coming home from work to see her wiping her hands on a towel, smiling at him like he’d brought the sunset with him.

He imagined kids—two, maybe three—running around their small, tidy house somewhere on the edge of town. He’d mow the lawn on Saturdays. She’d hang sheets outside to dry. He’d handle the money; she’d handle the dinners and playdates. Everything would fit.

It was a very American dream in his mind—just not the kind most of his colleagues talked about.

Because, unlike them, Edgar did not dream of a wife who had a career. He did not dream of a woman who earned more money than him, or even as much. That thought made his jaw tighten.

He wanted a home. He wanted a wife who stayed in it.

Modern city women, in his experience, wanted too much. They wanted trips to Miami and designer handbags and brunch every weekend. They wanted “partnership” and “sharing chores” and conversations about their personal growth. They talked about “work-life balance” and “finding themselves.” They spent money like it grew in their closet.

Edgar didn’t trust that.

He trusted numbers. Savings accounts. Neatly labeled folders of investment statements. The growing balance in his 401(k). He’d grown up watching his parents stretch every dollar until it squeaked. Now that he had money, he cherished it.

He never borrowed. He never lent. He skipped vacations he could have afforded, telling himself he’d travel “someday” when everything was perfect. He drove a car he knew was reliable, but not flashy. He bought his suits on sale. He made spreadsheets for fun.

He was proud of that discipline.

To him, it meant independence. No one controlled him. No one could take anything away from him, because he counted every cent before he let it go.

Girls like Alice—girls from the country, who knew how to make meals from almost nothing and didn’t dream of a corner office—fit perfectly into that dream.

In his imagination, she became exactly what he thought a perfect wife should be: a woman who adored cleanliness, who loved to cook, who kept the home peaceful, who raised children and waited for him to come back from work like he was a hero.

The fact that he knew almost nothing about her actual life did not bother him.

Every now and then, he considered driving back to that little unnamed village. Just to visit. Just to see if she was there. Just to say hi, to pretend it was a coincidence.

Then the doubts slipped in.

She was too beautiful to be unattached, he thought. There had to be a boyfriend. Or a fiancé. Or a husband who did not appreciate her enough but still existed.

Besides, time had passed. Wouldn’t it seem strange to show up months later? She might think he was stalking her. He didn’t want to look foolish.

So he stayed where he was, and gradually the thought of Alice became more like a pleasant fantasy than a plan.

Then, one Tuesday evening in September, life gave him another chance—and nearly took it away in the same breath.

The sun was low over the city, staining the Denver skyline gold, when Edgar’s car sputtered.

He was on a side street not far from his apartment, thinking about an email he needed to send and the price of new tires, when the engine coughed and lurched.

He frowned and tapped the gas.

The car jerked, then stalled completely.

Behind him, someone leaned on their horn. Another driver swerved around him, shouting something through an open window that Edgar didn’t catch but didn’t need to.

His heart hammered. He flicked his hazard lights on and guided the dying car to the curb as smoothly as he could, praying it wouldn’t quit completely before he got out of the traffic flow.

When he finally rolled to a stop, his hands shook on the steering wheel.

“That’s going to be expensive,” he muttered, staring at the dashboard.

After a minute, he dug out his phone and called a tow truck. The dispatcher said it would be half an hour.

Half an hour. He glanced in the rearview mirror. A line of cars moved around him, annoyed but no longer trapped.

His apartment was only a couple of blocks away if he cut through the park. A cab would cost more money he didn’t want to spend. He told himself it was stupid to waste cash when he had two perfectly good legs.

He locked the car, checked that the hazard lights still blinked, and started walking.

The park lay between two streets, a ribbon of grass and trees with a jogging path and a small playground. The lamps flicked on one by one as he entered, their glow soft against the deepening blue of the sky.

He walked quickly, hands in his pockets, mind already calculating how much a tow and repairs might cost and how much that would throw off his carefully constructed budget.

He almost didn’t notice the three figures until they peeled away from the shadows near a cluster of trees.

They were young. Hoodies up, hands shoved in their pockets, moving just a little too casual to be truly relaxed.

“Hey, man,” one of them said, stepping slightly into his path. “Got a light?”

Edgar’s pulse jumped. He stopped, every instinct telling him to keep walking, but his feet stayed planted.

“I don’t smoke,” he said, voice tight. “Sorry.”

The guy’s friend snorted. “Then give us a couple dollars so we can buy a pack,” he said. “You can do that, right? You look like you got it.”

Edgar felt a strange, stubborn anger rise through the fear.

Why should he give his hard-earned money to people who probably wasted every cent they ever touched? People who loitered in parks at dusk and begged instead of working?

“No,” he said. “I’m not giving you anything. Go home.”

“That’s not very friendly,” the first guy said, stepping closer. His tone, once faux-casual, had sharpened.

“Look,” Edgar said, forcing his voice to stay firm. “I don’t want trouble. I’ve been taking martial arts since I was a kid. Just let me walk.”

Even as he said it, he knew it was a mistake—not because it wasn’t true, but because it sounded like a dare.

“Martial arts, huh?” the third guy said, finally speaking up from behind him. “Show us.”

Everything happened fast.

Edgar’s body moved before his brain did. He lunged, aiming a punch at the nearest guy’s shoulder, hoping to knock him off balance and bolt.

For a second, it worked. His fist connected; the guy cursed and stumbled.

Then the other two were on him.

He felt the impact of fists and feet in quick, confusing bursts. His back hit the pavement. He curled instinctively, arms over his head, trying to protect his face while his ribs and legs absorbed the rest. The world narrowed to the thud of shoes, the rush of blood in his ears, the hoarse breathing of the boys above him.

He wasn’t thinking about his savings account now. Or about Alice. Or about anything beyond getting through the next second.

“Stop!” a voice screamed.

It cut through everything—sharp, furious, female.

Footsteps pounded across the grass. “Get away from him! I’m calling the police right now!”

The kicks slowed for a moment. The leader spat a curse over his shoulder.

“You’re not calling anything,” he snapped.

She didn’t stop. “Hey!” she yelled again, closer now. “Leave him alone!”

There was a new sound—a solid whack, like something heavy connecting with a body. Someone yelped.

Edgar cracked his eyes open through the haze of pain.

A woman was swinging her handbag at the nearest attacker like it was a weapon, her face fierce. At the same time, she shouted for help, her voice rising through the park.

“Call the police!” she yelled toward the playground. “Hey! Over here!”

The boys looked at each other, calculations flashing across their faces. A dog started barking. A man jogging on the far side of the path slowed, pulling out his phone.

“Forget it,” one of the boys muttered. “Let’s go.”

They took off running, vanishing into the shadows between two houses at the edge of the park.

The woman dropped to her knees beside Edgar.

“Are you okay?” she asked, breathless. “Can you hear me?”

He recognized her voice first.

Then, through the swirling grayness, her face came into focus—eyes he’d already seen once in a tiny village, a mouth he’d imagined smiling in a kitchen he’d invented.

“Alice,” he whispered, the name catching on his bruised lips.

Her eyes widened. “You remember me,” she said softly. “You were on your way to a wedding. Edgar, right?”

He nodded, too dizzy to say more.

“You might have a concussion,” she said, voice shifting into calm efficiency. “You need to go to the hospital. Don’t move yet.”

“I’ll go,” he said. “If you come with me. I’m not losing you again.”

Something flickered in her eyes at that, something between surprise and something warmer.

“Okay,” she said after a second. “I’ll come with you. I’m not leaving you like this anyway.”

She pulled out her phone, called for an ambulance, and stayed right there on the pavement, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder until the sirens wailed and the paramedics knelt beside them.

A few hours later, Edgar lay in a hospital bed, head bandaged, ribs taped, pride thoroughly battered. The doctor had confirmed a mild concussion and bruises but no broken bones, no serious internal damage.

“You’re lucky,” the doctor had said. “It could have been worse. Take a week off work. Rest. Hydrate.”

Alice sat in the plastic chair by his bed, holding a foam cup of hospital coffee she clearly had no intention of drinking.

“You didn’t have to stay,” he said, voice rough.

“I know,” she replied. “But if you think I’m the kind of person who drags a stranger away from a fight and then just disappears, you don’t think much of me.”

“I don’t think you’re a stranger,” he said quietly.

She smiled, a small, unexpected curve of her lips. “Well,” she said, “maybe we can fix that. Now that you’re not lying in a park like a dropped backpack.”

In the days that followed, she visited him again and again.

She brought homemade cookies one day, still warm in a container. She brought a paperback novel the next. She told him small things about her life: that she’d grown up in that little nameless village, yes, but now lived in the city; that her mother still worked at the dairy farm; that she, Alice, had moved away a few years back and found a job she loved.

She didn’t say what the job was.

He didn’t ask.

He assumed it was something simple. Something you could learn on the job. Cashier, maybe. Or cleaning staff. Or a position at a daycare. Jobs daughters of milkmaids got.

None of that mattered to him. In fact, it almost made him feel better. His plan didn’t have to change.

He’d already decided, sometime between his second and third bowl of hospital soup, that he was going to marry her.

He would keep it to himself for now, of course. No need to scare her away with too much honesty. But in his mind, the pieces already slid into place with satisfying clicks.

She’d quit whatever job she had—he’d insist on it, gently of course. She’d move into his apartment, which would become their place. He’d handle the money and decisions. She’d take care of the home and kids. She’d never have to walk through a park at night and fight off anyone again.

“What about you?” she asked him once, sitting with her legs crossed, sipping hospital coffee as if it were real. “What do you do for work?”

He cleared his throat, adjusting his pillow. “I’m a senior manager at a finance firm,” he said. “Downtown. I deal with investments. Planning. Big numbers.”

“Sounds important,” she said.

“It is,” he said, maybe a little too quickly. “I’m in charge of a lot of people. And a lot of money. I worked hard to get there.”

“I’m sure you did,” she said, without sarcasm.

He took a breath. “Are you married?” he asked. “Or…seeing someone?”

She tilted her head, amused. “Do you really think,” she said, “that if I were married, or even dating someone seriously, I’d spend this much time with another man in a hospital?”

“Fair point,” he said, his mood lifting instantly.

By the time he was discharged a week later, he was almost giddy with possibility. He’d survived a random attack. He’d been rescued by the girl he’d thought about for months. She wasn’t attached. She liked him enough to sit and talk every day.

It felt like the universe was finally rewarding his discipline.

He invited her to dinner before she could escape the discharge paperwork.

“At a restaurant,” he said. “A good one.”

She hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said. “You just got out of the hospital. Maybe you should rest.”

“I’ll rest afterward,” he insisted. “Please. I want to thank you. Properly.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay,” she said. “One dinner.”

At first, he thought about taking her somewhere simple. A diner. A mid-range place with paper napkins and decent food. It would be cheaper, and that was always his first instinct.

Then he decided this was an investment.

If he wanted her to understand what kind of life he could offer, he needed to show her. Just once, he told himself, just this once, he’d splurge.

So he booked a table at one of the city’s best restaurants: a glowing spot on a corner downtown, known for its chef and its prices. The kind of place where the Denver Broncos occasionally showed up for a quiet dinner and food bloggers always had a camera.

He put on his best suit. He picked her up at the corner near her apartment building. She wore a simple dress and cheap flats, hair down, face bare of makeup except for a hint of gloss.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

She smiled, but he saw the way she glanced at the restaurant sign when they arrived, her shoulders stiffening ever so slightly.

“Don’t be shy,” he said as the host led them to a table near the window. “I’ll help you with the menu. Or I can order for both of us, if you’d like.”

“That might be better,” she said calmly. “You know this place better than I do.”

He sat straighter, pleased. This was how it should be.

When the waiter came, Edgar ordered with careful confidence: steak for himself, scallops for her, a shared appetizer, a bottle of expensive wine he rarely let himself even look at on the list.

The waiter, a tall man in his thirties, glanced at Alice. Something like surprise flashed in his eyes, then was gone.

Edgar noticed, and felt a small surge of smugness. Of course the staff was surprised. A man like him with a girl like her, in a place like this—it didn’t fit the usual pattern. They expected bright dresses, designer handbags, manicured nails. Alice’s dress was plain, her shoes worn at the edges.

He could almost hear the waiter thinking: What’s a guy like you doing with a girl like that?

Stupid, he thought. They don’t understand. This is what a real wife looks like. Not those high-maintenance city girls.

“So,” Alice said after the waiter left, looking around the softly lit room. “You come here often?”

“No,” he said. “Places like this are for special occasions. I usually prefer to be more…sensible.”

Her lips twitched. “Sensible,” she repeated.

He nodded. “You’ll understand when we’re married,” he said, then realized what he’d said and cleared his throat. “I mean, if we—if someday—”

She didn’t look offended. Just curious. “You’ve really planned this out, haven’t you?” she asked. “Marriage. The future. Everything.”

“Of course,” he said. “A man needs a plan. I’ve worked hard to build a stable life. Savings. Investments. No debt. I can offer a lot. All I need is the right woman to share it.”

“And you think that woman should…what? Stay home? Raise kids?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, as if it were obvious. “That’s how it’s supposed to be. The man provides; the woman creates a home. My mother did that. My grandmother. It worked. I don’t understand why people try to complicate it.”

“What about what she wants?” Alice asked quietly. “This hypothetical woman. Has she been consulted in your plan, or is she just a feature of the spreadsheet?”

He chuckled, missing the steel underneath her tone. “Come on,” he said. “Every girl dreams of marrying well. Of not having to worry about money. Especially someone from the countryside. I mean, what would you rather do—fight with customers all day for a tiny paycheck or make a cozy home?”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a very specific question.”

He grinned. “Look, I know your background. I met you with a bucket of milk in your hand. Your mother’s a milkmaid. It’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with honest work. But I can give you something better. You won’t have to work at all. You can just be my wife. Raise our kids. Cook. Keep everything nice. I’ll take care of everything else.”

He thought he was reassuring her.

He thought he was offering her the dream.

She looked at him for a long, long moment.

“And what about romance?” she asked finally. “Do you plan to schedule that in between investment meetings?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Romance,” she repeated. “Flowers? A walk somewhere that doesn’t involve an expense report? Maybe a ring? Getting down on one knee instead of announcing at dinner that I’ll be quitting my job and producing your heirs?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The waiter, mercifully, arrived with their food, breaking the moment.

Dinner itself went…fine.

The steak was excellent. The scallops melted in her mouth. They talked about safe topics: the weather, the city, funny things that had happened in the hospital. Edgar kept circling back to the life he envisioned, painting pictures with his words: a house some day in a good suburb, maybe a small backyard, a dog, kids, holidays with his family.

When he suggested they continue the evening at his apartment—“just to talk more,” he insisted, though they both knew what he meant—she gently declined.

“I don’t think we know each other well enough for that,” she said.

“Of course we do,” he protested. “We’ve spent hours together. I know you. And you know everything important about me.”

“On the contrary,” she said, smiling, but her eyes were cool. “I think I’ve only just started to learn who you are.”

The waiter placed the bill discreetly on the table.

Edgar picked it up with a grand, confident gesture, ready to sign without looking like men did in movies.

His eyes landed on the total.

The blood drained from his face.

“What?” he blurted out, louder than he intended. “Is this a joke?”

The waiter’s expression didn’t change. “Our prices are listed on the menu, sir,” he said. “You ordered our premium wine and two of our signature dishes.”

“This is outrageous,” Edgar sputtered. “You should have warned me. No sane person pays this much for one meal! I’m not a millionaire. Get me the manager. I’ll talk to him.”

“I’m here,” Alice said quietly.

He froze.

He looked up slowly.

She was watching him with a strange calmness, as if she’d been expecting this moment all evening.

“What?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

“I said, I’m here,” she repeated. “I’m the manager. Of this restaurant.”

He stared at her, the words not quite fitting.

She went on, her tone even.

“This place belongs to my uncle,” she said. “He owns it. He used to be a chef here in Denver. Before that, he was just a kid in a little village, where his older sister took care of him when their parents passed away. She worked at the dairy farm to pay for his schooling.”

Edgar swallowed.

“My mother,” Alice said. “The ‘milkmaid’ you keep referring to like it’s some joke. That’s her. She’s the reason he’s here today. He built this restaurant, and when he needed someone he trusted to run it, he hired me. His niece. The girl from the countryside.”

The waiter said nothing, but there was a small, unmistakable hint of satisfaction in his eyes.

“I have a degree in business,” Alice continued. “From a very respectable university. I also have certifications in hospitality management. I’ve worked in this industry for years. I coordinate the staff. I oversee the financials. I talk to suppliers and critics and health inspectors. I can read a profit-and-loss statement in my sleep.”

She tilted her head.

“But you,” she said softly, “took one look at me carrying a bucket of milk and decided you knew my entire life. My dreams. My worth.”

Heat crawled up Edgar’s neck.

“I didn’t know,” he said, his voice cracking. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would it have made a difference?” she asked. “Would you have listened if I’d said, ‘Actually, I manage one of the best restaurants in the city, and I chose that milk bucket because I love my mother, not because I had no other option’?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“How many times tonight did you call me a milkmaid’s daughter?” she asked. “Like it was a limitation instead of a piece of a story you barely understand?”

Silence settled over the table.

Around them, other diners kept eating, unaware that the neat picture Edgar had drawn of himself was cracking apart.

“I’ll pay,” he muttered finally, fumbling for his wallet.

She shook her head. “No need,” she said. “Consider the dinner my treat. A lesson on me.”

“That’s not fair,” he blurted. “You set me up. You let me sit here looking like an idiot.”

“I didn’t make you say any of those things,” she said. “You did that all by yourself.”

He stared at her, at the woman he’d turned into a character in his own private story. Suddenly she looked very different: not a simple country girl plucked from obscurity, but someone who saw him more clearly than he’d ever allowed anyone to.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean— I hope this doesn’t…ruin things between us. We can move past this. Right?”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Edgar,” she said, “what exactly do you think we had?”

He frowned. “We were…seeing each other,” he said. “You visited me. We had dinner. I was going to— I mean, I planned to—”

“To propose?” she finished for him, raising one eyebrow. “Without asking me what I wanted? Without even knowing where I worked? Without the slightest idea that I might actually like my career and not want to give it up to vacuum your living room?”

He flushed. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s honest,” she said. “When I met you in the village, I thought you were a nice guy. Funny. A little out of your depth, but honest. When I saw you in the park, hurt, I didn’t hesitate. You were in trouble. I helped. That’s who I am.”

She paused.

“But the more you talked,” she said, “the more I realized that you weren’t looking for a partner. You were looking for…an accessory. Someone to slot neatly into a life you’d planned without them. Someone you could put below you and feel safe.”

He flinched.

She stood, smoothing her dress.

“I have to get back to work,” she said evenly. “I only let myself sit down for a couple of hours to have dinner with you. My break’s over.”

She looked at the check, then at him.

“Don’t worry about the bill,” she said. “It’s covered. Consider it…a farewell gift.”

“Alice—” he started.

“Goodbye, Edgar,” she said. “I hope someday you meet someone who challenges you to grow. And I hope you actually let yourself do it.”

She walked away, the waiter following her with a small nod in Edgar’s direction.

He sat there, staring at the unpaid bill as if it were an accusation.

Humiliated didn’t begin to cover it. Crushed came closer. Exposed felt accurate.

He told himself, fiercely, that this was her fault too. She could have told him the truth earlier. She could have corrected him, stopped him from making a fool of himself.

He told himself that.

But when he reached for his wallet again, intending to pay anyway, his fingers stalled.

The old reflex kicked in.

Why should he pay when she’d said it was free? Why should he spend that much money if he didn’t absolutely have to? The dinner was already over. He couldn’t get it back.

He put his wallet away.

He stood up.

He walked out of the restaurant, leaving the bill on the table.

On the sidewalk outside, the Denver air felt cooler than it had going in. Cars moved past. People laughed, heads bent together, unaware of the small drama that had just unfolded with the white tablecloths behind them.

Edgar told himself he would forget this. Forget Alice. Forget the sting in her voice when she called him out. Forget the way she’d looked at him when she said he was searching for someone to place below himself instead of beside him.

There were plenty of women out there, he thought. Women who would be thrilled to have a man with a stable job and a growing savings account. Women who wouldn’t question his plans or his budget. Women who would admire him properly.

Someday, he told himself, he would find one.

He did not see Alice standing just inside the restaurant’s front window, watching him walk away with a look that was more amused than angry now.

She knew, in the quiet, private place inside her where she kept all her hardest truths, that men like Edgar rarely got the thing they thought they deserved.

Love—the real kind, the messy, equal kind—didn’t land in the laps of people who treated others like accessories. Happiness had a way of dodging the stingy and narrow-minded, skirting around them like water around a stone.

Maybe, she thought, that was a kind of justice.

Or maybe, for some people, loneliness was the only life that ever matched the size of their heart.

Either way, she turned away after a moment, lifting her chin, and walked back into the warm, noisy heart of the restaurant she ran, where people came not to be sorted into categories but to be fed, welcomed, and seen—exactly as they were.