2: 2

Early the next morning.

The call from the wedding coordinator came through fast and frantic.

"Miss Turner, the old heritage house your parents left you, someone's tearing down the fencing! Our whole lawn-ceremony setup is destroyed!"

I threw off the covers and rushed out of the bedroom. Mark was coming toward me carrying a homemade breakfast.

I stared him down, my voice shaking.

"The ceremony site. Did you send people to tear it down?"

He gently held out the warm milk to me, and admitted it with a smile. "Don't panic. I told the crew to go."

"Why!" I looked at him, disbelieving.

Mark pressed his hands to my shoulders and pushed me back toward the room.

"Come on, drink your milk first, and I'll explain everything."

"Rowena and I talked it over, we'd lend the house to her as a warehouse for now—"

"Let go of me!"

I shoved his hands off hard and looked at him coldly.

"That house is what my parents left me. It's mine!"

"I don't have time for your reasons right now." With that, I pushed him out the door.

Half an hour later, I took a cab back to the old heritage house.

In the yard, the roses my parents had planted were ripped out by the roots, and the wall covered in photos of me and my parents had been scraped to pieces.

This was supposed to be where I held my lawn wedding next month. Now it was rubble.

The crew foreman handed me a short-term land lease contract.

In the box for the authorizing signatory was Mark's name.

Shaking with rage, I ran over and threw my body in front of the excavator's tracks.

Mark appeared out of nowhere, wrapping his arms tight around me from behind, kissing my hair like it pained him.

"Come on, I've already booked the top ballroom at a hotel for the wedding."

"This house is just sitting empty, going to waste. Better to let Rowena use it as a shipping warehouse for her online store for now."

"I promise, afterward I'll have it restored to exactly the way it was."

Rowena climbed out of his car.

She was clutching a bankruptcy liquidation notice, looking at me timidly.

"I really can't afford a warehouse anymore. I have no choice but to trouble you and borrow the old house for a month."

She walked over and took my hand, but her foot crushed the frame holding the photo of me and my parents.

Before I could say a word, tears started rolling down her face, one after another.

"I've got nowhere left to turn. I've even thought about dying. Take pity on me, I'm begging you!"

Just then, two vans screeched to a stop out front.

Several vicious-looking men charged into the yard with steel pipes, shouting.

"Rowena Cox, pay up! Or we smash your goods today!"

In an instant the whole thing spiraled out of control.

The one in front swung his pipe down at Rowena.

Mark yanked Rowena into his arms, and on pure instinct shoved me out, right into their path.

A dull, heavy thud. The pipe scraped hard across my left shoulder, and blood soaked through my white shirt in seconds.

Mark checked over the untouched Rowena in his arms, anxious, then turned and snapped at me.

"Camille, why are you just standing there like an idiot? Don't you know how to dodge!"

Searing pain tore out of my shoulder as I struggled to push myself up.

Looking at the wreckage all around me, at the fiancé who had shoved me toward the thugs to protect his first love, I laughed out of sheer despair.

Mark took off his coat and wrapped it around the shivering Rowena.

Then he came over, looked at my bleeding shoulder, and his voice went soft again.

"It's chaos here. Take a cab to the hospital yourself and get it bandaged. Rowena's shaken up, I'll take her away first."

He turned, shielding Rowena as he got her into the car and left, without another glance at me.

I watched their backs disappear, then dialed the black-market broker.

"This old heritage house. Five hundred thousand, title transferred today, cash in hand now. Whoever wires first gets to lock the land down."

Then I hung up and immediately called the wedding company.

"The wedding booking at The Peninsula Hotel. Cancel all of it."

3: 3

Eight o'clock at night.

A message from Mark came through.

He'd booked out a Michelin-starred restaurant, he said, coaxing me to come celebrate our third engagement anniversary.

I only agreed so I could get back the documents I'd left with him.

I pushed open the private room door and froze.

Sitting at the round table weren't just Mark. Rowena was there too, dressed head to toe in designer labels, and beside her sat a bank credit department manager in a sharp suit.

The moment Mark saw me, he broke into that doting smile.

He came over to pull out my chair and poured red wine for me, gentle as anything, as if nothing had ever happened.

I looked coldly at the black truffle and caviar spread across the table and didn't touch a thing.

The more attentive he was, the harder the sourness churned in my stomach.

The dinner had barely started when Mark slid a joint-liability guaranty contract across to me with a smile.

His voice was soft. "Cami, I hope you'll sign this. Help Rowena out, just this once."

Rowena's eyes went red on cue, watching me on the verge of tears.

"Please, you're going to be his wife. If you'll just put your apartment up as collateral, my online store can get back on its feet."

"I swear, I'll work myself to the bone for the two of you after this."

Mark took my hand and gazed at me with all his feeling.

"Once we're married, we're one unit. This is just a formality. You think I'd ever let you carry any real risk?"

"I wanted to just clear her debt outright, but Rowena has her pride. We're only lending her the house for a little while."

"Be good and sign it. I promise the apartment comes back to you in one piece."

I was shaking all over. I threw his hand off with everything I had.

"Mark, are you determined to drain every drop of my blood and grind my bones to dust, just to pour it all into her bottomless pit?"

The smile vanished completely from the corner of his mouth. He looked at me and let out a long sigh.

"Camille, why are you throwing a tantrum in front of an outsider? Are you set on humiliating me in front of Manager Dickerson?"

I picked up the red wine in front of me and, without a second's hesitation, threw it in that disgusting face of his.

Over Rowena's shrill scream, I pulled my documents out of his pocket and walked out of the room.

Standing on the street with the cold wind howling around me, I called my old university mentor.

"Professor, that overseas art residency at Continental. I'll take it."

I hung up and pulled in a hard breath to steady myself.

Three years of dreaming, and I was finally awake.

I finally understood. Real security had never come from a man's hollow promises. It came from being able to hold my own fate in my hands.

The screen lit up. Another message from Mark, still arrogant, still so sure of himself.

"Done throwing your fit? Come to the office tomorrow like a good girl and apologize, and I'll pretend none of today ever happened."

Looking at the screen, all I felt was how absurd it was.

Calmly, I deleted our couple's shared cloud account, wiping out every photo and every note.

Then I snapped my SIM card in half and dropped it down the drain.

4: 4

The next day.

An official invitation from the Continental Academy of Fine Arts landed in my inbox, along with an e-ticket for a flight to Paris three days out.

Right after it, my mentor sent a short email.

“Camille, welcome back. Remember this: no matter when, the talent that belongs to you will never betray you.”

Reading the words on the screen, my eyes went hot, and something in me settled that hadn't been settled in years.

For three years, to keep up appearances for Mark, I'd put away my brushes, learned to wash my hands and cook, and turned into a puppet who came the second he called.

Now, at last, I was going to cut these rotten cords with my own hands and live one life for myself.

On the morning of the third day, Mark's assistant sent an email.

“Ms. Turner, Mr. Sanchez is hosting a grand pre-wedding reception for you tonight at the Bulgari Hotel. Please be sure to attend on time. Mr. Sanchez says stop making a scene.”

I didn't reply. I called a moving company.

“Every piece of clothing, all my art supplies, all my books that belong to me. Pack it up and clear it out.”

“Anything that can't be taken goes straight into the shredder and the trash.” I directed the workers, calm the whole time.

In under two hours, the place was empty.

In the spacious living room, all that was left were those luxury mystery boxes Mark had bought for Rowena, and a pile of expensive ornaments.

Looking at the cold, bare apartment, all I felt was that it was one giant garbage dump.

I set the police report receipt on the table, along with a Declaration Ending the Engagement, signed unilaterally and stamped with a lawyer's seal.

I pulled up my suitcase, turned, and left, getting into the car service to the airport.

At eight that night, the ballroom of the Bulgari Hotel blazed with light.

In a couture suit, Mark stood at the door, greeting guests, every inch the gentleman.

He was certain I'd wear the dress he'd picked out himself and show up obediently at his side, the way I'd caved to him countless times before.

By eight-thirty, there was still no sign of me at the entrance.

Mark smiled and touched glasses with the guests, discreetly waving his assistant over to go hurry me along, impatience plain in his eyes.

In the past, whenever I threw a fit, all he had to do was offer me a way out and I'd take it. He figured I'd dragged this one out too long.

At eight forty-five, the assistant came running back in from outside, drenched in sweat, and stammered out his report.

“Mr. Sanchez… Ms. Turner's number, it's disconnected…”

Mark's brow finally drew together, and a crack of unease opened somewhere in his chest, out of nowhere.

He forced himself calm, strode up onto the stage, picked up the microphone, and got ready to give his opening remarks first, holding on to his flawless image as a decent man.

The instant he lifted his glass, the LED screens across the ballroom went black.

The next second, a huge screenshot of a court case filing flashed onto them.

It read, plain as day: Camille Turner has filed a report under her real name accusing Mark Sanchez of embezzling $800,000 in dowry. The case has been accepted for investigation!

The ballroom doors were shoved open.

The lawyer I'd retained strode in, and in front of everyone, raised the megaphone in his hand and announced it loud.

“On behalf of Ms. Camille Turner, I am today formally issuing the declaration ending her engagement to Mr. Mark Sanchez, and pursuing, under the law, his financial liability for misappropriating her personal property!”

In that instant, the flawless mask on Mark's face shattered.