✨ “Let’s Prove Them Wrong” – Extended & Exciting Rewrite (1 Option Only)
Clare Morgan sat alone in the corner booth of a bright, cozy café, her fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee that had already gone cold. The café smelled like cinnamon rolls, fresh pastries, and strong espresso.
Soft music played in the background, mixing with the chatter of people enjoying their afternoon. Outside the window, autumn leaves danced across the cobblestone street like tiny ballerinas. But inside Clare’s chest, her heart beat with a nervous, heavy rhythm.
Another blind date.
Her fifth one this year.
She only said yes so her sister, Emily, would stop nagging her. Emily kept insisting that being thirty-two and single was some kind of emergency that needed to be “fixed immediately.”
But Clare didn’t feel broken at all.
She had a job she loved—she taught literature at a local college. She had already published two poetry books, had a warm little apartment filled with books and fairy lights, and a fluffy cat named Whitman who purred on her bad days and never judged her for eating ice cream straight from the tub.
But every Thanksgiving, her family’s eyes told a different story. Concerned looks, whispered gossip, and her mother’s long, dramatic sighs that sounded like: “Why is my daughter still single?”
The problem wasn’t her personality. Clare was funny, smart, gentle, and creative.
The “problem,” according to society, was her body.
Clare was curvy—soft and round, in a world that praised sharp cheekbones, flat stomachs, and thigh gaps. She had spent years fighting with mirrors, diets, and cruel comments. She had finally reached a peaceful place with her body. She was healthy, she took walks, she ate well, and she had learned to love herself.
But that didn’t mean the world loved her back.
Most people ignored her completely.
And the ones who didn’t often stared for the wrong reasons.
Just then, the bell above the café door jingled. Clare glanced up—and her stomach dropped.
A man stepped inside, and he looked like he had been carved out of a magazine cover. Tall, confident, wearing a perfectly-fitted charcoal-gray suit. His hair was dark and neatly styled, his jaw sharp, and his eyes—wow—his eyes were a mix of blue and green that seemed to sparkle under the sunlight. He scanned the room…and then smiled directly at her.
No. No way. This can’t be him, Clare thought, panicking.
He walked over to her table.
“Clare Morgan?” he asked, offering a handshake.
Clare blinked. “Uh—yes?”
“I’m Ryan. Ryan Fitzgerald. Emily set this up.”
For a second, Clare forgot how to breathe. Emily worked for Fitzgerald Industries, one of the biggest tech companies in the city. Emily had mentioned a coworker setting her up on a blind date—but she forgot to mention that her boss was the Ryan Fitzgerald, the CEO himself.
Clare forced a polite smile. “Oh! Um… please, have a seat.”
Ryan sat with the easy confidence of someone used to being in control. His watch looked extremely expensive, the kind you only saw in luxury magazines.
Why on earth was he here—with her?
After they ordered, Ryan leaned back. “I’ll be honest. I haven’t been on a blind date in years. Your sister cornered me in the break room at work, waving your poetry book in my face. She didn’t let me escape until I said yes.”
Clare’s face burned. “I’m so sorry. She means well but does not understand what boundaries are.”
Ryan chuckled. “No apology needed. She’s… very persuasive.”
Clare swallowed hard. Her voice slipped out before she could stop it. “You don’t have to stay. Really. I know how this goes.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “How what goes?”
“This,” Clare said, gesturing between them. “You take one look at me, stay for an hour to be polite, then go home and text Emily saying I’m a ‘lovely girl, but not your type.’ So… we can skip the act if you want.”
Ryan stared at her, surprised. Then a small smile tugged at his lips.
“You’ve already written the whole script,” he said softly. “Should I at least get a line in?”
Clare looked down. “It’s not a script. It’s called experience.”
Ryan leaned forward. His voice was calm but meaningful. “Experience teaches us things, yes. But sometimes, experience lies to us. You think I’m here because your sister guilt-trapped me. But that’s not true.”
Clare looked up, confused.
Ryan continued, “I read your poetry, Clare. It was honest. Raw. Beautiful. I wanted to meet the woman who wrote those words.”
Her heart trembled.
“Your sister keeps your book on her desk,” he said gently. “One day I picked it up just to read a page. I couldn’t stop. The way you write about beauty—it’s not about perfection. It’s about truth. And I thought, if your mind works like that… I would like to know the person behind it.”
Clare didn’t know what to do with those words. “That’s… nice of you to say.”
“It’s the truth,” he replied. “I’ve dated the kind of women society calls ‘perfect.’ Most of those relationships were empty. I’m tired of things that look good but feel hollow.”
Clare let out a short, bitter laugh. “You don’t get it. I’ve spent my entire life hearing that no matter what I achieve, it won’t matter if I don’t fit into a size eight. It’s hard to believe someone like you actually looks past that.”
Ryan looked at her and then spoke in a low voice:
“You’re right. People do say things like… ‘No one marries a fat girl.’ Isn’t that the phrase?”
The words hit Clare like a punch. Her breath caught. Her eyes stung with tears.
Ryan held her gaze and said softly, “So how about we prove them all wrong?”
Silence filled the room. Clare could barely speak. “You… you don’t even know me.”
“Then let me,” he said. “Let me know the real you. The woman who writes about finding light inside broken places. The woman who still loves, even when the world tells her she shouldn’t.”
Clare whispered, “Why would you want someone with this much baggage?”
Ryan’s eyes darkened with emotion. “Because I have mine too.”
He took a breath. “My ex-wife left me for her personal trainer. She told me, ‘You’re married to your company, not me.’ And she wasn’t wrong. I built walls around myself. I dated casually so I wouldn’t get attached. I told myself I was fine. But the truth is—I’ve been scared to want something real again.”
He slowly reached his hand toward hers—not touching, just inviting.
“Maybe we both deserve another chance. To see what happens when two broken people stop pretending they’re unbreakable.”
Clare stared at his hand. Her heart thumped loudly.
And she placed her hand in his.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Let’s start again.”
She cleared her throat and smiled nervously. “Hi. I’m Clare. I teach literature and write poetry. I’m scared of being hurt but… I’m trying to be brave.”
Ryan’s face warmed with a real smile. “Hi, Clare. I’m Ryan. I run a tech company, work too much, and I’m also terrified—but I’m willing to try if you are.”
That afternoon turned into evening. People left the café, the lights dimmed, and still they talked—about childhood, loneliness, dreams, fears. Ryan confessed how success left him lonely. Clare admitted that years of rejection had made her numb.
Neither wanted to say goodbye.
Months passed.
Ryan became her biggest supporter. He attended her poetry readings and sat in the front row, clapping the loudest. Clare visited his office, and the employees treated her with respect—not as “the boss’ girlfriend” but as someone Ryan valued deeply.
Of course, Emily was thrilled. She claimed the title of “Cupid” every chance she got.
But not everyone celebrated.
At dinner with Ryan’s family, his mother smiled stiffly across the table and said, “She’s lovely, dear, but… is she really the type of woman you want to be seen with at corporate events?”
Ryan placed his fork down slowly and replied, “She’s exactly who I want by my side—at every event, every day, every moment. And if that makes anyone uncomfortable… that’s their problem, not ours.”
Later, at a family barbecue, Clare’s aunt leaned over and whispered,
“Sweetheart, don’t get too attached. Men like him don’t marry women like you.”
Clare straightened, looked her aunt directly in the eye, and said, “Maybe men like him don’t. But Ryan isn’t ‘men like him.’ And I’m not ‘women like me.’ We’re just us—and that’s enough.”
A year later, Ryan brought Clare back to the same café. The same booth. The same sunlight through the windows.
“Do you remember what you said to me that day?” he asked.
Clare laughed. “Which part? I said a lot of defensive things.”
He smiled and slid a leather-bound journal across the table. “Open it.”
Inside were pages of his handwriting—little diary-like entries about their year together. Notes about her smile, how she sees beauty in rainy sidewalks, and moments he never wanted to forget.
At the very last page was a single sentence:
“Will you continue this story with me—forever?”
Tears ran down Clare’s cheeks. “Yes,” she whispered. “A thousand times, yes.”
Their wedding wasn’t a huge fancy event. It was small and intimate, in a garden filled with wildflowers and fairy lights. Clare walked down the aisle in a dress that didn’t hide her body but celebrated it. She glowed—not because she changed, but because she didn’t.
Ryan’s vows made everyone cry:
“I promise to always see you—exactly as you are. And when you forget how extraordinary that is, I will remind you.”
During the reception, Clare’s aunt approached them with tears in her eyes.
“I was wrong. The way he looks at you… I’ve never seen love like that. I’m sorry I ever doubted you deserved it.”
Clare smiled gently. “I always deserved it. I just had to believe it myself.”
Years later, Clare published her third poetry book titled:
Proving Them Wrong
The dedication read:
“To Ryan—who saw me when I couldn’t see myself.
And to everyone still learning that they are enough, exactly as they are.”
The book became her most successful—not because it was a love story, but because it told the truth. About loving yourself in a world that tries to make you shrink.
When a journalist asked her in an interview, “What inspired this book?” Clare answered:
“Society said no one marries a fat girl. I found someone who said, ‘Let’s prove them wrong.’ And we did—not by changing me, but by loving who I already was.”
Because the biggest changes don’t always come with fireworks. Sometimes they are soft, steady, and brave.
The real revolution begins the moment you stop waiting for the world to approve of you.
It starts the moment you believe you were worthy all along.
And sometimes—yes, sometimes—
proving everyone wrong starts with remembering you never needed their approval at all.
~ End ~