After Calling Off the Engagement, I Became My Ex-Fiancé’s Creditor

Thunk.

The sound of the lock echoed in the quiet street.

I turned.

Vincent stood on the other side of the bulletproof glass door, casually tossing my unmistakable little canvas bag in his hand. He smirked at me.

“I said you weren’t going anywhere, Elara.”

All I had now was my phone. I slammed my palm against the cold glass. “Vincent! Open this door! This is a robbery!”

“A robbery?” He strolled back to the sofa and sat, crossing his legs. “I’m teaching my fiancée about consequences.”

Sofia curled into his side, shooting me a venomous smile. “Just apologize, Elara. Vince is being generous. It’s about to rain. You don’t even have a car.”

Vincent pulled out his phone. He made a call, his eyes locked on mine.

“Freeze all of Elara Vitale’s cards. Revoke her hotel access. Put the word out to every car service in the city. Anyone who takes her fare is declaring war on the Cassio family.”

He ended the call. He tapped the glass with his knuckles.

“Your pride is worthless, Elara. Without me, you’re homeless. You have two hours to think it over.”

He leaned back. “Come begging on your knees, and we’ll talk.”

The sky darkened. Wind whipped down the boulevard. Then, the rain came. A cold, relentless downpour.

I stood under the narrow awning, shivering violently.

My phone buzzed. Notification after notification.

Card frozen. Hotel reservation canceled. Ride-share account suspended.

He wasn’t bluffing. He was using his power, the kind that didn’t come from boardrooms but from dark alleys and whispered threats, to erase me. To break me.

I scrolled through my contacts with numb fingers.

I called my friend, Clara.

“Clara. I’m at the salon on Champs-Élysées. I need a ride.”

Her voice was thick with tears. “Elara… I can’t. Vincent called my father. He said if I helped you, our family’s import business would be at the bottom of the river by dawn. Dad locked me in my room… Elara, please, just give in. He’s insane.”

The last thread of hope snapped.

Through the rain-streaked glass, I saw Vincent pour a glass of bourbon. He swirled it, watching me like I was a disappointing show. Sofia was kneeling now, massaging his feet.

The sight didn’t hurt anymore. It just clarified everything.

I’d been sifting through garbage. Time to take out the trash.

I shoved my frozen hands into my pockets. If no one was coming, I’d walk.

I stepped off the curb into the icy curtain of rain.

SCREECH!

A long, black Mercedes Maybach slid to a halt inches from me, spraying a wave of filthy water.

The rear window lowered. Vincent’s head of security, a man named Marco with a face like stone, got out. He held a large black garment bag.

He didn’t offer me the umbrella he carried. He just looked at my drenched form with utter disdain.

Then he tossed the bag at my feet.