Affair Ruins Wedding Plan

I stared at my phone screen until my vision blurred, the explicit videos of Marcus and Amanda searing themselves into my memory. My hands shook as I took screenshots, printing them on the small desktop printer I kept in my studio. The evidence felt like a physical weight in my hands—tangible proof of his betrayal.

The Manhattan skyline glittered outside my window, indifferent to my collapsing world. I straightened my spine, a strange calm settling over me. Five years of pretending to be less than I was. Five years of shopping at discount stores when I could buy the entire chain. Five years of watching Marcus preen about providing for me when my family's wealth made his look like pocket change.

All for nothing.

I gathered the photos, slid them into a manila envelope, and headed back to the penthouse. Not home—it had never truly been home. Just another stage set for the elaborate performance I'd been putting on.

* * *

Marcus was still in his home office when I arrived, his silhouette framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan spread out beneath him like his personal kingdom. He didn't turn when I entered, too engrossed in whatever deal was more important than our wedding preparations.

"I thought you'd gone to sulk," he said, his eyes still fixed on his computer screen. "Have you gotten over your dress drama?"

I placed the envelope on his desk and stepped back, waiting. He glanced at it with mild irritation before opening it. The color drained from his face as he flipped through the photos.

"What the hell is this?" His voice rose as he stood, towering over me in what I recognized as his intimidation stance. "You've been spying on me?"

"Spying?" I laughed, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "Someone sent these to me. Apparently, your affair isn't as discreet as you thought."

"This is nothing." He swept the photos off his desk. "Amanda means nothing. Just a convenient distraction."

"A convenient distraction you let wear my wedding dress?"

His jaw tightened. "You're overreacting. This happens in business. People blow off steam."

"This isn't about business, Marcus. It's about respect." I twisted the six-carat diamond engagement ring off my finger, the one he'd bragged cost more than most people's homes. "I don't want to marry someone who thinks I'm disposable."

I placed the ring on his desk with a soft click that somehow echoed in the silent room.

His expression shifted from anger to disbelief. "You're not serious."

"I've never been more serious." I turned to leave, my heart pounding but my voice steady.

"Victoria!" His shout followed me down the hallway. "Don't you dare walk away from me! You'll regret this!"

I didn't look back.

* * *

The next morning, I awoke on the sofa in my studio to the buzzing of the intercom. A delivery. When I opened the door, I found myself facing a mountain of boxes—each bearing the logo of exclusive designers. Louboutin, Manolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choo. Stacked beside them were arrangements of rare orchids and roses.

The delivery man handed me a card. Marcus's handwriting, sharp and angular: "A small apology. Call me."

I closed the door without accepting any of it. My phone had been buzzing non-stop since dawn—Marcus, his calls growing increasingly frequent. I silenced it and made coffee, trying to process what my life would look like now.

By afternoon, the tone of his messages had shifted.

"You're making a mistake. Think about what you're throwing away."

"Don't embarrass us both with this tantrum."

"My lawyers will be in touch about the prenup violations."

The final text chilled me: "I'd hate for people to think you're having another breakdown. Remember how they talked after your mother's death? History repeats."

My hands trembled as I called Chloe.

"He's threatening me," I said when she answered. "Using my mother's death against me."

"That bastard." Chloe's voice was ice. "Where are you?"

"My studio."

"Stay there. I'm bringing reinforcements."

An hour later, Chloe arrived with her cousin, a top-tier attorney who specialized in high-profile divorces. We drafted a cease-and-desist letter, the legal language cold and precise.

"This will slow him down," the attorney said, "but a man like Marcus Kane doesn't back off easily. You need to be prepared for war."

I nodded, feeling the weight of the Sterling name I'd hidden for so long. "Then war it is."

As Chloe and her cousin left, my phone lit up with a text from an unknown number: "I've always admired your strength, Victoria. If you need a friend during this time, I'm here. —Ethan"

Ethan Whitmore. A name from my past that sent an unexpected warmth through my chest. How had he known? And why, after all these years, did his message feel like the first ray of light in an endless night?