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.