Here’s the Truth About Your Fiancée,” the Father Said Coldly, Handing His Son a Flash Drive

**Diary Entry**

“Heres the truth about your fiancée,” Father said sharply, handing me a flash drive.

I checked my watch again. Id booked a table at *The White Swan*, the most expensive restaurant in Manchester. Emily was already ten minutes late, and tardiness always put me in a foul mood. Punctuality was one of the few things I valued above all else.

Sighing, I flipped through the menu for the third time, though I already knew what Id order. Fatigue and the earlier conversation with my father had left my thoughts tangled. Just as I reached for my phone, the restaurant door swung open.

“Darling! Sorry Im late!” Emily rushed in like a whirlwind, a soft blue dress clinging to her slender frame. She leaned down and kissed me lightly. The scent of spring flowers and something warm, something *hers*, washed over me, melting my irritation.

“You know how I hate waiting,” I tried to keep my voice stern, but my lips betrayed me with a smile. It was impossible to stay cross with her.

“But I,” she grinned, mischief sparkling in her eyes, “*love* seeing such a handsome man waiting for me. Got stuck at a traffic light, then some old dear shuffled across the road like she had all day!”

I laughed. “You were putting on makeup, werent you?”

“Me? Never!” she gasped in mock outrage. “Only twenty-five minutes!”

I couldnt look away. Chestnut waves framed her face, her blue eyes shone, and those dimplesGod, those dimplesmade her smile unforgettable. Every time I saw her, I still couldnt believe my luck. Two years since wed met, eighteen months together, a year engaged. And now

“To us?” I raised my champagne flute.

“To us,” she murmured, but something flickered in her gaze that made my stomach twist.

We ordered and chatted easilyEmily animatedly recounting her day at the clinic, a funny mishap with a little patient, her boss calling her the “golden nurse.”

“Hows work? The project with your dad moving along?” she asked, spearing a bite of salmon.

“Fine,” I shrugged. “Deadlines looming as usual.”

She nodded, then casually added, “Speaking of deadlines when *are* we setting a proper wedding date?”

I froze. *Again.*

“Em, weve talked about this. Once the project wraps”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she waved impatiently. “But its been *six months*, Oliver. I dont want to wait anymore. Weve been engaged a year. Whats the hold-up?”

“Im not holding things up. Its just not the right time.”

“And when *will* it be? When Im fifty? I want to be your *wife*, not just your fiancée!”

“Emily, Im swamped”

“Oh, please! As if youd need to do more than show up on the day!”

“Its not about that,” I snapped. “I want everything perfect.”

“So do I!” she shot back. “And you know whats perfect? A wedding abroad! Weve talked about thisMaldives, Bali, the Seychelles! Pick one! They handle everythingwe just show up.”

“Not *this* again. Do you want the glamour or just bragging rights?”

She shoved her plate away. “Is that what you think? That Im with you for money? For some lavish spectacle?”

“Isnt it?” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “All you talk about is the wedding, the trips, the places you want to go. Never about just *being* with me.”

“Youre impossible!” Tears welled in her eyes. “I *love* you! But you keep dodging this! If you dont want to marry me, *say so*!”

“Im *not* dodging!” I barked, drawing stares. “Why do you keep pushing?”

“Because I love you, you idiot! But you dont get it!”

I threw a handful of large notes on the table. “Know what? Im done discussing this here.”

I stormed out, ignoring the waiters bewildered look and Emilys muffled sobs.

—

The drive home was a blur. I cranked the music in my car, trying to drown my thoughts. Why had things gotten so complicated?

I remembered our first meetingmy fathers private clinic, where Id gone to fetch documents. Sir Richard Harrington, a leading cardiologist and owner of a healthcare empire, never mixed family with business. “Keep it in the blood,” hed say.

As his only son and heir, Id grown up under scrutiny. School, uni, workeveryone treated me differently. By twenty-five, I was tired of women who only saw my name and wallet. Models, socialites, career climbersall wearing the same mask.

Then Emily walked in.

Shed been at reception, filling out forms, her blonde hair in a neat ponytail, no pretence. When she smiled at me, something shifted. *Realness.*

We dated, fell in love. Unlike anyone Id ever knownraised in a modest family, worked since sixteen, paid her own way through nursing school. My mother adored her. “Shes genuine, Oliver. Dont let go.”

But my father? He never criticised her, praised her work ethicyet every time I mentioned marriage, his expression darkened. “Shes not for you.”

Tonight, it all boiled over. Her urgency, the island weddingwas she just another gold-digger with better acting?

—

I found my father in the study, whiskey in hand. “Waiting up?”

“Your mother called Emily. She was in tears.”

“We fought. Not now, Dad.”

He pushed a glass toward me. “Drink.”

I gulped it. The burn helped.

“Did you know,” he said suddenly, “my parents opposed your mother? Thought a nurse from Dorset wasnt good enough for a Harrington.”

I stared. “You never told me.”

“Some mistakes haunt you.” He studied me. “Was it the wedding?”

I exhaled. “She keeps pressuring me. The *island* nonsense. Like she just wants a show.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” I admitted. “But youve always acted strange when I mention marrying her. Like youre hiding something.”

He stood abruptly. “Wait here.”

Minutes later, he returned with a flash drive. “The truth about Emily.”

I plugged it in. Medical filesECGs, test results, a diagnosis.

*Congenital heart defect. Severe. Progressive. Surgery needed.*

“This this is *Emily*?”

He nodded. “My patient for five years. She works at the clinic to stay monitored.”

“Why didnt she tell me? Why didnt *you*?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality. She forbade me.”

I scanned the prognosis. “*One year. Five with surgery.*” My voice cracked.

“Yes.”

Everything made sense nowher urgency, the trips. She just wanted to *live*.

I grabbed my keys.

“Where are you going?”

“To her.”

—

Emily answered the door, eyes swollen. “Oliver?”

I pulled her into a crushing embrace. “Why didnt you tell me?”

She stiffened. “About what?”

“Your heart. Dad showed me your records.”

She paled. “He had no right”

“He did. Because I *love* you. Not out of pity. *You.*”

Tears spilled. “Im dying, Oliver. A year, maybe five. I didnt want to trap you.”

I cupped her face. “Marry me. Next week. On your bloody island. Anywhere.”

She smiled through tears. “Yes.”

We talked all nighther condition, the wedding, the future, however brief.

She fell asleep against me at dawn. I carried her to bed, then called my father.

“Thank you,” I said. “Were getting married. Next week.”

A pause. “Oliver this isnt just an illness. Its”

“I *know*. And Ive never been more certain. I love her. All of her.”

A sigh. “Then congratulations.”

I hung up and returned to the bedroom.

Emily lay still. Too still.

“Em?” I squeezed her hand. Cold. No pulse.

The ambulance came too late.

*Congenital defect. Sudden.*

Shed known. Those last testsshe mustve known.

I knelt beside her, gripping her lifeless fingers. That smile still there, peaceful.

Wed had a few hours of honesty. A few hours of hope.

She never saw the ocean.

But perhaps where she is now, the waters stretch farther than any sea on earth.

**Lesson**: Time isnt promised. Hold tight to what mattersbefore it slips away.