When I stepped outside, New York had been swallowed by a storm. Snow fell thick and fast, clinging to my hair, my lashes, coating the streets in a treacherous white. I gritted my teeth, climbed into the car, and drove, even though I knew the roads were against me.

I’ve never been a confident driver, and the slick streets, coated with fresh snow, nearly threw me off more than once. Every block felt like a battle, every turn a gamble.

By the time I finally got the cherry cake, my legs were wobbly from slipping on the icy sidewalks countless times. My fingers were numb, the box barely in my grasp. I handed it to her.

She took a bite, scrunched her face, and spat it into a napkin.

“It’s freezing. It tastes awful!” she whined.

Damien didn’t respond. Without a word, he tossed the entire box into the trash, crouched down, and scooped her up into his arms. “Come on. I’ll take you somewhere warm to eat.”

I stayed frozen, holding myself together, until he glanced at me, irritation written all over his face. “Why are you just standing there? Get in the car.”

I had no strength left to argue. Sliding into the back seat, I pressed my head against the cold glass, shutting out everything around me.

The ride was torture. Ariana leaned against him, whispering into his ear, and he let her. Their laughter echoed in my skull, a dull thrum against the numbness in my limbs. I closed my eyes, willing myself to pretend this wasn’t happening.

Then, headlights blazed into my vision. A car from the opposite lane had spun on the ice, sliding straight toward us.

Damien didn’t hesitate. He swerved sharply, the world tilting sideways, and in the split second before impact, he threw himself over her, shielding her completely.

The crash slammed into me like thunder. Pain shot through my body, the world narrowing to one image: him. Him holding her. Protecting her.

My lips trembled, and everything went black.

---

When I woke, I was in a hospital bed. A stranger told me they had found me unconscious and brought me here. A week passed. Not once did Damien appear.

Every day, though, I saw her. Ariana. Her posts were sharp as knives, images of him at her bedside, holding her hand, feeding her soup.

“I didn’t expect that between life and death, he would choose me,” she wrote.

“He wanted to see you, but I said I had a headache, so he stayed.”

“Celeste, I’ll make sure I’m the only one in his heart.”

I blocked her. I blocked him too.

Before, I might have hoped we could part without hate, that some shard of what we once had could survive. But after this… no. I didn’t want to see him again. Not once, not ever.

The day after discharge, it was his mother’s birthday. I wanted to stay away, to cut every tie to the Thompsons. But she called relentlessly, begging me to come, even threatening that she wouldn’t celebrate if I didn’t.

She had always been good to me. After my parents died, she treated me like her own daughter. I couldn’t ignore her, especially since she was the only warmth left in that house. Besides, if I was ending this engagement, I needed to do it in front of her and his father. They deserved to hear it from me.

I agreed.

His mother loved grand celebrations. By the time I arrived, the house was alive with glittering lights and laughter, as if nothing had ever gone wrong.

And then I saw them.

Ariana holding Damien’s arm, steadying him, his voice sharp and cutting through the hum of the party.

She noticed me. Striding toward me, she tilted her head and smiled that cruel little smile.

“Look at you. Nearly got yourself killed just to protect me,” she mocked.

My stomach tightened. Before I could even move, her gaze locked on mine. “Damien’s mother is so on your side. You must feel very proud,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt.

I tried to pull away, but she clung to my arm, nails digging into my skin.

“She’s only on your side because of your mother,” she spat. “Your parents were short-lived, weren’t they? Gone. How long can that friendship last? Once I have Damien, do you think she’d ever go against her own son for you?”

Something inside me snapped. My parents—no one dared touch them. Before I realized it, my hand had struck her face. The sound of it cracked through the room.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed, and she stumbled back, sobbing into Damien’s arms.

“I only told her not to stay angry at you!” she cried. “But she said I shouldn’t care at all. That you mean nothing to her!”

Damien’s expression darkened. He looked at me like I was a stranger.

“Celeste. APOLOGIZE.”

I laughed bitterly. The man who once shielded me from everything now stood as her protector. I stared at them, then turned toward the door. I wanted no part in this twisted display.

But Damien’s hand clamped onto my wrist, hard enough to make me wince. The pain in my bones was nothing compared to the ache in my chest, seeing him believe her.

I lifted my eyes to him, steady and unflinching. “I hit her because she insulted my parents. And as for you… she’s right. Someone who chooses her over me without even asking the truth is nothing to me.”

One by one, I pried his fingers off, refusing to be trapped, and finally walked away.

By the time I reached the stairs, a single tear had slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. My mind flashed to years ago, to his friend who had tried the same trick, painting me as cruel and selfish. Back then, Damien hadn’t hesitated for even a second. He had defended me fiercely, even dragging out security footage to make sure his family would never misunderstand me. I had believed, naively, that he would always stand by my side. But now? He didn’t even pause. He simply believed her.

I dug my nails into my palm, desperate to stop the tears. I wanted nothing more than to turn and walk away, never look back. But Damien’s mother kept speaking softly, pleading for me to stay. She had been good to me since childhood. After my parents died, she had treated me like her own. How could I abandon her now?

I slipped away from the crowd, searching for a quiet corner, a small refuge where I could breathe, where I could gather what little composure I had left.

After the engagement broke, I noticed how terrified Mrs. Thompson was that Damien might run straight back to Ariana. She didn’t want that door to close completely between him and me, so she kept guiding him to my side during every moment of the banquet. Ariana, by contrast, was left sulking in the corner.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a drunk, entitled young man stumble over to her, pressing himself into her space. He wouldn’t leave, and the crowd around them pretended not to notice. Everyone had seen what had happened earlier, yet no one intervened. Ariana’s eyes grew red, her lip trembling as though she might cry.

Then, as if summoned by some unseen force, Damien appeared. His fist slammed into the man’s face with brutal precision. The guy staggered back, clutching his jaw.

“Damien! You wouldn’t let me touch Celeste before, and now you won’t let me touch her either?” the man shouted. “Celeste’s your fiancée, but who the hell am I to you?”

Damien’s gaze lingered on him for a long, tense moment before flicking to me. His jaw tightened, his voice low and deadly.

“She’s mine.”

The room went silent. My chest constricted.

Then, in a cruel twist that made my stomach turn, I watched him sweep Ariana into his arms and kiss her fiercely, loudly, as everyone watched. She clung to him as if she would collapse without him.

“If anyone dares bother Ariana again,” he said, his voice a dangerous growl, “I will never let them go.”

The room shifted around me. People who had defended me hours earlier now gathered around her, forming a protective circle as if she were a queen. My stomach lurched so violently I could barely breathe. I ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, pressing my hands over my mouth to stifle sobs, but the tears came anyway, hot and unstoppable. My chest ached from crying so hard.

Finally, I sent Mrs. Thompson a text, apologizing, saying I wasn’t feeling well and would return another day to speak with her. I wiped my face, took a shaky breath, and opened the door.

I barely made it two steps before someone grabbed my wrist.

It was Xander, the same man Damien had just punched. His grin was cruel, his eyes dark and assessing.

“Honestly,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I’ve always liked you better than that Ariana. I only stayed away because Damien protected you like you were priceless. But now… he’s protecting someone else. If you want, I can take over.”

I recoiled, jerking my wrist free. “I don’t want you. And this is the Thompson manor. I’d think twice before doing anything reckless here.”

His expression darkened, anger from the earlier punch flaring. He lunged, shoving me against the wall, and then his lips crashed against mine.

I fought, hands trembling, clawing for the emergency phone on the wall. Miraculously, I hit it.

“Damien! Xander won’t leave me alone, come quick—”

But all I heard was his sneer over the line.

“Maddy was harassed by him, and now you too? Celeste, when did you start playing games like this?”

My throat tightened. “I didn’t! He really is—”

The line went dead.

Ice slid into my veins. Damien had hung up.

Xander’s grip tightened, dragging me toward the bathroom. Panic roared in my ears. I grabbed the nearest decoration from the wall and smashed it against him with all my strength.

He screamed in pain and loosened his hold. I bolted, stumbling into the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it with shaking hands. My whole body shivered as I called Mrs. Thompson, begging her to send someone.

She arrived quickly. Her orders were sharp and immediate: servants dragged Xander out as he cursed and kicked, his rage fading with every step. I collapsed against the door, utterly drained.

Mrs. Thompson didn’t scold me. She didn’t question me. She simply directed the servants to help me upstairs to change. When the banquet ended, she insisted on sending me home herself.

At the car, she reached out, adjusting my hair like my mother used to. “Before you leave for Europe, come see me more often,” she whispered, eyes glistening but voice calm. “I’ll send your token later.”

I nodded, thanking her with every ounce of strength I had left, and slid into the car.

We were still some distance from my apartment when the driver’s phone rang. I hadn’t meant to listen, but Damien’s voice came through, sharp and urgent.

“Turn around immediately! Ariana has a stomachache. She needs to go to the hospital now.”

I turned toward the window, silent. It was always her. Always.

The driver stole a glance at me in the rearview mirror, his voice barely above a whisper, like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. “Madam said Miss Celeste was upset earlier… She told me to bring you home first.”

I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended. “Since when do you care about outsiders? Huh?”

Outsider. That word cut through me. My hands clenched the strap of my bag until my knuckles ached. That was who I had become—nothing more than an outsider.

I didn’t want to make things harder for him, so I told him to stop the car and let me out. He hesitated for only a heartbeat, then pulled over. The cold air hit me the second my feet touched the pavement, biting and harsh. Within moments, the taillights had vanished into the night.

I trudged along the empty street, scarf wound tightly around my face. The wine from the banquet still buzzed faintly in my system, and my thoughts wandered to memories I shouldn’t have revisited. Mrs. Thompson’s last birthday floated into my mind—everyone teasing us about wedding dresses and future children, all of it light, warm, and full of laughter. That day, I had been so happy that I drank too much and ended up doubled over with stomach pain.

It had been storming that night. No taxis. Damien couldn’t use the family car. But he didn’t care. He had carried me through icy streets all the way to the hospital, refusing to let me cry, refusing to let me suffer alone.

And now, a year later, that same Damien could leave me standing alone on the roadside for Ariana.

My nose stung. I tightened my scarf, keeping my steps slow and deliberate. By the time I reached my apartment, my muscles ached from the cold.

I was just about to unlock the door when a hand suddenly covered my eyes from behind. “Guess who?”

My heart jumped, but I forced myself to remain calm. Slowly, I pried his hand away, keeping my face unreadable.

It was Damien.

His frown deepened when he realized I wasn’t playing along. He lowered his hand awkwardly and pulled a small box from his pocket. “My mom said you left something behind,” he murmured, turning it over between his fingers. “I was told to bring it back. What is it?”

The box wobbled lightly in his grip, and my breath caught. That small container… it held the token of trust my mother had exchanged with the Thompsons before she died.

I lunged forward, snatching it from him before he could pry it open.

His eyes narrowed. “Celeste… are you hiding something from me?”

I could feel the sharp corners of the box digging into my palm. Once, Damien and I had promised never to keep secrets from each other. That was before Ariana. Before lies became effortless, before he learned how to bend the truth without a second thought.

I gripped the box tighter, the ache radiating into my chest. I looked up at him. “It’s not a secret. But there’s no reason I should tell you.”

We weren’t anything anymore.

I turned toward my door, wishing this night could end.

But he moved faster. Damien yanked my bag open and pulled the box back into his hands. “Really?” His voice dripped with mockery. “What is this? A gift from some outsider? Is that why you didn’t want me to see it?”

Something inside me shattered. I didn’t think. I reached for it, stretching onto my toes, desperate to reclaim it before he could open it.

He held my hand, steadying me. I knew he liked this, the way it reminded him of the past—when I had laughed, thrown myself into his arms, begged for what he had taken. He used to love that.

This time, I stared up at him, and he noticed. My eyes were red. His smile faltered.

“You cried… just because I wanted to see it?” he asked quietly.

I pressed my lips together. All I wanted was for him to hand it back. That was all. But before I could explain, his phone started ringing. Once. Twice. Over and over, relentless. I glanced down—the screen lit up with her name. Ariana.

Damien shifted, restless, visibly anxious. Finally, he muttered, “She keeps calling. I don’t know what’s wrong… maybe something happened. She’s alone. I should go—”

“Give me back my things, then leave,” I interrupted, voice steady.

His face darkened. I could see the words die in his throat. But the phone wouldn’t stop. Finally, he shoved the box into my hands, rough and careless. The lid popped open, and a yellowed piece of paper slid out, fluttering to the floor.

He glanced at it once, then turned and left without a word.

I bent down, picked it up, and saw what it was. Our marriage certificate, waiting for his signature. Without thinking, I tore it into pieces. The scraps fell into the trash along with whatever remained of us.