He Faked Being Broke to Win Me Back,I'm Already His Rival's Wife

After a long silence, Harrison tested the waters. "Sibyl, you really sold the house? How could you bear to let it go?"

It was true. That house was the first place we'd bought on our own after Harrison broke away from the Gilbert family.

It wasn't big, but I'd thrown my arms around him that day, giddy with promise. "This is our first real home. I'll treasure it forever."

When I said it, neither of us imagined that forever came with an expiration date—one so short that I sold the place just two years after going abroad.

"So where are you living now?"

I gave him an address. It was in Stoneridge's most exclusive gated community. Another beat of silence from Harrison.

"Sibyl, sounds like you've been doing well these past few years. Made a lot of money?"

"No, I came back in a rush. I'm just staying there temporarily—a friend's letting me crash."

He let out a long breath of relief.

Of course. He had money and connections. How could the years apart have possibly treated me better than life at his side?

Still, I was looking forward to seeing whether he'd breathe quite so easily once he found out who owned that house.

We'd agreed to meet at the street-food stand outside our old high school—the one I'd suggested visiting several times the year we split up, the one he'd never taken me to again.

"Greasy smoke and cheap food. Sibyl, do you honestly think those grimy tables deserve to share space with my suit? I lost interest in you a long time ago. There's no point in some sentimental trip down memory lane."

The day after he said that, Gloria sent me a photo.

At that very same stand, a man and a woman sat pressed together. The man didn't seem to mind at all when the oil from the skewers in the woman's hand smeared across his crisp white shirt.

That was the moment it finally clicked. When he said not good enough, he'd meant me.

The stand looked exactly the same as it always had. Harrison sat at one of the low tables, his blue delivery uniform blending right in with the surroundings.

What didn't blend in was the cluster of well-dressed young men gathered around him.

I recognized every single face.

They were saying the same kind of things they'd always said—dripping with contempt.

Back then, it had been aimed at me. Now it was aimed at Harrison.

"Your filthy hands just touched my jacket. For old times' sake, I'll cut you a deal—half a million should cover it."

"Come on, that's nothing, right? Used to be what you'd drop on a single bottle of wine."

Brent Delgado, once Harrison's closest friend, propped his foot on the low table, though his eyes kept drifting toward the direction I was coming from.

Someone else stepped forward. "Mr. Delgado, maybe let it go? Like you said, that was the old days. Forget half a million—the guy probably has to deliver food for half a day just to scrape together fifty bucks."

Snickers rippled through the group. "Look at him. This pathetic? Give him five bucks and he'd probably run an errand for you."

Brent waved the owner over and ordered a twelve-pack of beer.

"Finish every last one, and I'll let you off the hook."

Harrison picked up a bottle, humiliation etched across his face.

I slowed my pace until I was barely moving at all.

By the time he drained the second bottle, I was still standing several yards away.

He couldn't hold back any longer. He turned to look at me.

"Sibyl, I'm sorry you had to see this."

Whether it was good acting or the cheap beer burning its way down, his eyes glistened with what looked like tears of shame.

I didn't answer. Instead, I walked straight up to the table, grabbed a bottle, and poured it over Harrison's head.

Then the next one. Then the next. I didn't stop until every bottle in the twelve-pack was empty.

Harrison gaped at me, mouth open, unable to process what had just happened. The others stood frozen, not sure how to react.

I looked at Brent and smiled. "You did say that if someone can't drink it, pouring it over their head counts just the same."

The first time Harrison brought me to meet his circle, Brent had looked me up and down with undisguised scorn. "You turned down every arranged match from every powerful family for her? She's nothing special."