Breaking Free from Christian's Game

The strawberry shortcake sat in my hands like a fragile dream, carefully packaged in a white box tied with a red ribbon. I'd spent hours making it—the same recipe I'd used at the orphanage when Christian and I would sneak into the kitchen after lights out. The memory of his smile then had kept me going through nine failed weddings.

I smoothed down my simple black dress as I approached the Martinez family charity gala. The hotel glowed with golden light, valets parking luxury cars that cost more than my yearly rent. Security guards eyed me suspiciously as I approached.

"I'm here for Christian Martinez," I said, trying to sound confident.

"Name?" The guard's expression said he already knew I didn't belong.

"Ayla Jenkins." I held up the cake box. "I made something for him."

He smirked. "Wait here."

I stood there, feeling the weight of stares from people in designer gowns and tuxedos worth more than my rent. Then I saw him—Christian, tall and handsome in a perfectly tailored suit, talking to a group of investors near the entrance.

Our eyes met across the crowd. For a moment, I saw the boy from the orphanage—the one who'd promised me forever. He started moving toward me.

"Ayla?" His voice held surprise, but something else too—wariness.

"I made your favorite," I said, holding out the cake box. "Remember how we used to—"

"Christian, darling!" Savannah's voice cut through our moment like a knife. She appeared at his side in a glittering gold gown, her arm sliding possessively through his. "The Youngs are waiting for us."

She noticed the cake box, her perfectly shaped eyebrows arching. "What's this?"

"It's nothing," Christian started, but Savannah was already reaching for it.

"Let me see," she purred, taking the box from my hands. She opened it, examining the strawberry shortcake with theatrical interest. "How... quaint."

Then her eyes met mine, cold and calculating. "Homemade?"

"Yes," I said quietly. "Christian loves it."

She smiled—a predator's smile. "Well, we can't have peasant food at a black-tie event, can we?"

Before I could react, she dropped the box. It hit the pavement with a sickening thud, the cake splattering across the dirty ground.

"Oh my," she said, her voice dripping false concern. "What a shame."

I looked at Christian, waiting for him to say something—anything—to defend me. He looked away instead.

"Security will show you out," he muttered.

---

I sat in the café across from the hotel, scrubbing frosting from my shoes with a napkin. My hands shook as I tried to compose myself.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," I whispered to myself. "Why do you keep believing?"

The café was nearly empty, just a few business people on laptops and a group in the back booth laughing loudly.

"Another round?" A familiar voice—James Whitfield, Christian's best friend since prep school.

"Sure, why not? We're celebrating early." That was Marcus Blackwood, another member of their inner circle.

I froze, straining to hear their conversation.

"To Christian's tenth wedding crash," James laughed. "Ten is a nice round number, don't you think?"

"Two hundred grand in the pot now," Marcus replied. "I put fifty on 'Yes' last month. Easy money."

My blood turned to ice as I realized what I was hearing.

"The Viper Club app is blowing up," another voice joined in. "Everyone's tracking the over-under on when she'll finally wise up."

"Funny thing is, Christian actually thinks she'll never leave him," James said. "He put in fifty grand himself on 'Yes' for wedding number ten."

I felt like I'd been punched in the chest. The betting pool. It was real—they'd actually turned my pain into a game.

"Hey, did you see the new odds?" Marcus asked. "Five to one she makes it through the ceremony without him showing up."

"Savannah's been working overtime making sure he's busy that day," James replied. "But you know Christian—he'll find a way to fuck it up for everyone."

Their laughter felt like knives in my back.

---

"Ms. Jenkins?" Ambrose Martinez's secretary looked surprised when I appeared at the door of his office building the next morning. "You don't have an appointment."

"I need five minutes," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "Tell him it's about the betting pool."

Ten minutes later, I sat across from Ambrose in his sleek office overlooking the city. His expression remained unreadable as I laid out everything—the bet, the humiliation, the years of being Christian's doormat.

"You want a loan for your fashion business," he said finally. "That's what this is about?"

I leaned forward. "No. I want to make a deal."

His eyes narrowed slightly—the first real reaction I'd seen from him.

"I'm staging a tenth wedding," I said. "A real one this time. And I'm going to reject Christian when he shows up."

"That sounds... self-destructive," Ambrose replied carefully.

"It's my way out," I said. "But I need insurance. If I go through with it and reject him publicly, you marry me instead."

His pen stopped moving. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." I met his gaze steadily. "We get married that same day. You help me rebuild my reputation, and I'll never bother your family again."

"And if you don't follow through?" he asked.

"Then I leave town forever." I stood up, smoothing my skirt. "Do we have a deal?"

Ambrose studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he smiled—a small, genuine smile that reached his eyes.

"I believe we do."