Choosing the One Who Was Always There

Emma Blanton twists her ankle, and my fiance, Matthew Harrison, insists on becoming her personal chauffeur.

When I voice my disapproval, he makes an even more outrageous decision. He moves Emma into my apartment at Bellemont District—the apartment I bought with my own money.

He argues like he's the victim, "You're being selfish. She's injured, and living alone is too dangerous for her right now. I'm just being a decent human being.

"And that place is sitting empty anyway. Having someone there helps with security."

On the morning we were supposed to get our marriage certificate, he doesn't show up.

I call, expecting apologies. Instead, I hear, "Emma had a fever this morning—101 Fahrenheit. I had to take her to urgent care. We can postpone getting the marriage certificate. Her health can't wait."

To hell with postponing!

I grab my phone and call David Rockefeller. "Do you want to marry me? Then get to City Hall. I'm serious—right now."

I was supposed to become Mrs. Harrison today. But six hours after being stood up, I became Mrs. Rockefeller instead.

Who said getting dumped was a bad thing?

Standing outside a luxury high-rise in downtown Avalon District, I checked my watch for the fifth time. It was 7:30 am, and the streets were already packed with people rushing to work.

Matthew Harrison's silver Mercedes C-Class was still nowhere in sight. For three years, without fail, he would show up here like clockwork every weekday at 7:00 am. That was his idea.

"Darling, let me drive you to work. It's what real couples do," he used to say.

I had called him over ten times before someone finally answered. "Hello, is this Sophie? Matthew's driving right now," a woman said.

Her voice was unfamiliar and a little too sweet—the kind that could instantly put me on alert.

"I'm Emma Blanton. I fell down the stairs at my apartment this morning. My ankle's swollen badly. Matthew saw my SOS and rushed over to help."

"Put him on the phone." My voice turned cold.

A second later, I heard Matthew's voice, laced with irritation. "Sophie, now's not a good time. Emma's hurt. I have to take her to the ER."

"You couldn't text me? I've been waiting out here for nearly an hour."

"It was an emergency. I didn't have time to update you. Also, I won't be able to drive you for the next few weeks. Emma's ankle will take at least six weeks to heal. She needs someone to look after her."

"Matthew, our wedding is in two months."

"So what? I'm not supposed to ignore a friend in need just because I'm engaged. Don't be so selfish, Sophie."

The call ended.

I inhaled slowly, forcing myself to stay calm.

As the youngest partner at one of the top law firms in the city, I made 800 thousand dollars a year. I could call a black car service in 30 seconds.

But this wasn't about the money.

By the time I arrived at the firm, I was two hours late. My office was on the 32nd floor, with sweeping views of Crown Park.

"What happened?" David Rockefeller walked in, holding two cups of coffee.

David and I had gone to law school together at Haward. We also grew up as neighbors in Bellemont District. Now, he was a senior partner at the firm.

"Matthew went to take care of his 'dear friend,' Emma," I said, taking the coffee.

"You mean that Emma who posts bikini selfies on Instagram every other day?" David sank into the leather chair across from me.

"Do you follow her?"

"No, it's just that her comments are always under Matthew's posts. 'Matthew, you look so handsome today. Your muscles are getting even bigger,'" David said, mimicking a woman's high-pitched, syrupy voice.

I opened my laptop. "Doesn't matter. The prenup has already been drafted anyway."

David leaned forward and said, "Sophie, we've known each other for 25 years. I have to be honest—Matthew isn't good enough for you. He's a personal trainer who barely makes 50 thousand dollars a year. You're the one covering all his expenses."

"David, let's not get into this again."

"Fine." He raised both hands in mock surrender.

"But if you ever need anything, I'm here. Also, you look incredible today. That DVF wrap dress was made for you."

My phone buzzed with a text from Emma.

"Sophie, I'm really sorry you were late. Hope your boss didn't give you a hard time. I told Matthew I could call an Uber, but he said it's a friend's duty to help. I'm sure you understand, right?"

I typed quickly. "Emma, first, I'm a partner. I am the boss. Second, we're the same age—you're three months older, so drop the innocent act. Third, yes, I do mind my fiance being your personal chauffeur. Please handle your own transportation next time."

I hit send.

A few seconds later, her reply popped up. "Oh, sorry. It must've been your smile lines that confused me. I really did tell Matthew not to bother, but he said a man should protect a woman in need. Maybe you should talk to him directly. Your voice should carry more weight—as his fiancee."

She added a wide-eyed emoji for extra effect.