I booked a $150,000 private island vacation for our anniversary. My husband invited his parents and his ex-girlfriend. “You can handle the cooking and cleaning while we enjoy the beach,” he commanded. His mother sneered, “It’s the least you can do for my son’s money.” I smiled, cancelled the entire booking on my phone, and left them standing at the empty pier.

I walked down the pier slowly, my heels striking the wood in sharp, even clicks beneath the hum of the idling engine.

“Ryan,” I said, hearing the confusion and cold dread rising in my own voice. “What is this? Why are your parents here? Why is Madison here?”

He turned toward me, glanced once at my simple linen dress, and sighed like I was the one making things difficult.

“Ava, relax,” he said, smooth and careless, gesturing at the group. “Mom and Dad haven’t taken a real vacation in forever. And Madison’s been through a terrible breakup. She needed to get away for a bit. It’s a six-bedroom villa. There’s plenty of space.”

He had invited his parents and his ex-girlfriend on my anniversary trip. He had not asked. He had not mentioned it. He had simply assumed I would absorb it, pay for it, and behave.

I stared at him, almost unable to process the scale of the entitlement. “This is our anniversary trip, Ryan. It was supposed to be just us.”

Madison lifted her glass and gave me a pitying little smile. “Oh, Ava, don’t be dramatic. It’s a whole private island. We won’t bother you. Besides, Ryan said you’d probably want to stay inside with your work stress anyway.”