Ethan reached over and tapped my wrist like I was a badly trained pet.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” he said. “You know I care about you.”
Care.
He cared when my father’s investment company approved the emergency loan that kept his business alive. He cared when I introduced him to hotel owners, donors, politicians, and magazine editors. He cared while I paid deposits for the extravagant wedding he insisted needed to be “elegant but unforgettable.”
He cared every time my last name unlocked another door.
I looked at him, then at the ring he’d purchased through my jeweler using my money.
“Of course,” I answered smoothly. “I understand.”
His smile returned instantly. He thought he had won.
That night, while he slept in my penthouse — shoes on my marble floor, phone turned face down beside him — I sat at my desk and opened every wedding file he had created.
Guest lists. Vendor approvals. Security passes. Seating arrangements. Hotel reservations. Private dinners for his “exclusive circle.”
One by one, I erased myself from all of it.
Then I made three phone calls.
By sunrise, Ethan Cole’s perfect wedding no longer belonged to him.
Two days later, Ethan still believed I was simply upset.
He sent flowers to my office with a note that read: Be reasonable. I instructed the receptionist to leave them beside the recycling containers in the lobby.
Then came the texts.
