The news of Blair Vanderbilt's downfall broke while I was in Felix's arms, picking out matching Patek Philippe watches for our wedding on Fifth Avenue.

Every corner of New York society was buzzing, reveling in the fall of the Upper East Side's fallen princess.

I tilted my head, kissing the sharp line of his jaw. "Shouldn't the great Wolf of Wall Street play savior?" I teased.

He toyed with my fingers, a cold smirk playing on his lips. "The market doesn't do pity. What am I supposed to do? Darling, you know I'm no sentimental fool."

I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. His pride wouldn't allow him to circle back to a woman whose family had once deemed him unworthy.

I slipped away to the VIP lounge for a fresh glass of champagne. When I returned, Felix was on the terrace, his back to me, smoke curling from his fingertips.

A strange, sickening curiosity compelled me. I picked up the phone he’d left on the sofa.

A notification from a private wealth management app glowed on the screen:

[A withdrawal of $10,000,000 has been processed. Memo: Vanderbilt Hamptons Estate.]

The phone's cold light sliced into my eyes like a scalpel.

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1

"What's got you so captivated?"

A deep voice, laced with the roughness of a recent cigarette, came from right behind me.

My fingers went rigid. The numbers on the screen burned into my retinas.

A few seconds later, I calmly hit the lock button and placed the phone face down on the sofa cushion.

"Nothing."

I turned to face him.

A flicker of turmoil darted through his eyes, but the moment they met mine, it was expertly concealed behind a familiar warmth.

"Just looking at the schedule for my fitting tomorrow," I said smoothly.

Felix casually stubbed out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray and strode toward me.

He brought the scent of expensive tobacco and the autumn chill with him, pulling me into his embrace.

"Let the assistants handle the small stuff." His chin rested on my head, and he nuzzled my hair in a familiar, comforting gesture. "I'll clear my schedule tomorrow. Cancel my calls. The whole day, just for you."

I leaned against his warm chest, listening to the steady, even rhythm of his heart.

The question—What about the ten million dollars?—lodged in my throat like a shard of glass.

I closed my eyes and swallowed it down, burying the question along with the last five years of my life.

"Okay," I whispered.

The next morning, a light drizzle fell over Manhattan.

For the first time in ages, Felix skipped his morning overseas conference call. Instead, he sat across from me, meticulously peeling a hard-boiled egg and placing it on my plate.

When we arrived at the Vera Wang private couture salon on Fifth Avenue, the head designer and her team were already waiting by the door.

"Ms. Hayes, the three gowns you ordered have all been flown in."

I was ushered into the VIP dressing room.

Felix settled onto a velvet sofa, casually flipping through an issue of Vogue.

"Go on, try them on. I'll be right here," he said with a tender smile, his eyes warm with what looked like adoration.

The first was an intricate French-beaded gown with a sweeping train.

The process was long, with several assistants carefully lacing the satin ribbons at my waist.

Just as I was about to slip on the starlight diamond veil, a cell phone rang sharply from the main salon.

Through the half-open curtain of the fitting room, I saw Felix shoot to his feet.

The magazine slipped from his lap, unnoticed, as he stalked to the window, his back ramrod straight, shielding the phone as he spoke in a hushed tone.

By the time I emerged from the fitting room, gathering the heavy skirt in my hands, he was already shrugging into the Armani suit jacket he’d draped over a chair.

"Felix?" I called out softly.

He turned, his gaze sweeping over me for a fraction of a second.

Not a flicker of awe, not a word of praise. Just a raw, unconcealed agitation.

"An M&A deal just blew up." He was already heading for the door, buttoning his jacket. He didn’t even offer a parting hug.

"I'll go handle it and be right back. Pick whichever one you love. Just put it on the black card."

With a soft click, the door to the VIP room closed, and he was gone.

The head designer stood frozen, holding the veil, her expression awkward.

"Ms. Hayes, this..."

"It's fine," I said, gazing at my reflection in the full-length mirror—at the ridiculously, painfully overdressed woman staring back. "I'll wait for him."

The wedding dress was heavy, its corsetry so tight it was hard to breathe.

The antique clock on the wall ticked away the minutes with a deadening rhythm.

An assistant brought me my fourth cup of Earl Grey. It had gone cold, a bitter film forming on the surface.

I glanced at my phone.

Eight p.m.

He had promised he’d be right back. He'd left me waiting for twelve hours in a climate-controlled cage.

A dull ache flared deep in my lower abdomen. My face went pale, and I doubled over, my fingers digging into the expensive fabric of the gown.

Cold sweat beaded on my forehead.

With a trembling hand, I found Felix’s number in my contacts and pressed dial.

The long, lonely rings echoed through the empty salon.

Just as it was about to go to voicemail, someone answered.

"Felix, my stomach feels a little..."

"Hello?"

It wasn't Felix’s deep baritone. It was a woman's voice, light and coy, followed by a soft giggle.

My breath hitched.

It was Blair.

"Oh, it's Avalon."

The faint clinking of silverware on porcelain drifted through the line.

Blair laughed, a lazy, satisfied sound dripping with undisguised triumph.

"This kitchen is just massive. Felix was worried I'd get lonely rattling around in this huge estate, so he's making me truffle pasta."

The line went dead.

The persistent, dragging pain in my abdomen gnawed at my composure.

I sat on the sofa, motionless, for a very long time.

I was only roused from my stupor when the designer gently asked if I needed them to call a car. I stripped off the gown and changed back into my own clothes.

The Vanderbilt Hamptons estate was nearly an hour's drive from the city.

Rain lashed against the windshield, the Tesla's wipers fighting a frantic, losing battle as I sped down the coastal highway.

By the time I reached the wrought-iron gates, my Louboutins were ruined, soaked through with rain and mud.

The rusted gate was ajar, as if welcoming its former mistress home.

I picked my way through the mire toward the main house’s floor-to-ceiling window.

The house was blazing with light.

Through the rain-streaked glass, I could see everything.

Felix had shed his suit jacket. He was in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

He stood in the open-plan kitchen, holding a pan, his head bent as he murmured something to the woman beside him.

Blair was in a silk nightgown, her head tilted up, a radiant smile on her face.

She was holding a Ragdoll cat.

Felix hated cats.

We had lived together for five years, and he’d claim a severe allergy, waiting in the car if I so much as glanced at a cat cafe.

But now, as he rounded the kitchen island, he didn't flinch. He reached out and stroked the cat's head as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Blair seized the opportunity, tugging at his sleeve and cooing softly.

The scene was so sickeningly domestic it made my presence—as his fiancée—a complete farce.

I stood in the rain, a spectator to their cozy life, for a long time.

So long my fingers grew numb from the cold, so long the sharp pain in my abdomen subsided into a dull, menacing throb.

I walked around to the front of the house and pushed open the heavy oak door.

The laughter inside died instantly.

Blair flinched, clutching the cat and shrinking behind Felix.

"Avalon... what are you doing here?" she stammered, her eyes already welling with tears.

Felix spun around. The warmth on his face evaporated, replaced by a glacial frost the moment he saw me, drenched and dripping on his marble floor.

"Were you following me?" he demanded, his brow furrowed as he strode toward me.

I ignored his question. My gaze drifted past his slightly wrinkled shirt, past the open collar, and landed on the few stray cat hairs clinging to his fingertips.

A severe allergy, he’d claimed. He used to make me wash my hands if I so much as looked at a stray for too long.

But he was perfectly fine with that Ragdoll nestled in his arms.

So it wasn't an allergy. It was a lack of love.

"Avalon, did you really have to follow me out here just to start a fight?" His voice grew colder, seeing my silence. "Blair is in a fragile state. She's afraid of being alone."

Boom!

A crack of thunder split the sky, the flash of lightning illuminating my trembling, rain-soaked fingers.

The antique grandfather clock on the wall began to strike eleven.

I watched him start to drape his suit jacket over Blair's shoulders and felt the corners of my mouth pull into a smile.

"So, it's eleven already." My voice was steady, my expression unnervingly placid. "Felix, Vera Wang closes at eight."

The fury in Felix's eyes froze. His hand, mid-gesture, hovered in the air.

From behind him, Blair tugged at his shirt, her voice a choked sob. "Felix, don't be mad at Avalon. It's my fault. This house... it's full of my parents' memories, I was so scared... I promise I won't be a bother again."

Felix took her hand, patting it reassuringly.

He turned back to me, his eyes as cold as if he were looking at a stranger.

"This jealous act is completely out of line." He gestured sharply toward the door. "Go home. Now. Don't make a scene here."

I looked at him, standing there, a human shield for his old flame.

"Fine."

No screaming. No hysterics. No curses for Blair.

I turned, stepped back over the threshold, and opened my black umbrella.

I heard the door slam shut behind me.

A gust of wind spattered my cream skirt with mud, a fitting stain on the five years of my life I had so carefully devoted to him.

The next morning, the beep of the digital lock broke the silence of the apartment.

Felix walked into the bedroom, carrying the chill of the late autumn morning with him.

In his hand was a paper bag from that cult-favorite croissant shop on the Upper West Side.

The same croissant I’d once idly mentioned wanting. He’d braved a blizzard and a two-hour line for it then, carrying it back inside his coat to keep it warm.

He placed the bag on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed.

He reached out, his fingers moving to tuck a stray piece of hair from my cheek.

Just before his fingertips brushed my skin, a faint, familiar perfume wafted toward me.

Blair's signature scent.

He had draped his suit jacket over her last night.

My body reacted before my mind could. I flinched, turning my head away from his touch.

His hand froze in mid-air. His fingers curled slightly, then he casually retracted his hand.

"I was out of line yesterday," he said, his pride yielding to a tone of weary tolerance. "But you have to understand. The Vanderbilts went bankrupt. She has nothing, her mental state is fragile, she's been suicidal."

"I can't just stand by and watch her die, can I?"

He opened the paper bag, cut a piece of the still-warm croissant with a small fork, and held it to my lips.

"Here, eat. We'll reschedule the fitting after you've had something."

The rich, buttery aroma mingled with the ghost of that perfume, a cloying, sour combination in the air.

I didn't lose my temper. My body moved on autopilot, the muscle memory of five years of compliance taking over. I reached out and took the small fork from him.

A relieved smile flickered across Felix’s face.

But in the next second, I turned and, with one smooth, deliberate motion, dropped the entire croissant, fork and all, into the wastebasket by the bed.

A soft thud.

"It's cold," I said, pulling out a sanitizing wipe for my fingers without looking at him. "And I've lost my appetite."

The smile on Felix’s face vanished.