Fake Marriage, Real Revenge

I stared at my phone screen until the words blurred, my thumb hovering over the notification that had just destroyed my world.

*Wire transfer: $9,900 received from Henry Woods.*

Below it, a text message that read: *Ivy, I need space to figure things out. I think we should take a break. This is for the rent and stuff. Sorry.*

Sorry? After five years, I got a 'sorry' and enough money to cover three months' rent?

My fingers trembled as I counted the zeros again. Nine thousand nine hundred dollars. Not ten thousand—as if he'd calculated precisely how much to offer without triggering any legal complications. As if my five years of devotion could be quantified and purchased like a business transaction.

The apartment we'd shared for three years felt suddenly cavernous. Just yesterday, I'd been hanging string lights across the living room ceiling, preparing for our engagement party. The invitations were stacked neatly on the kitchen counter, each envelope addressed in my careful calligraphy. *Ivy Campbell and Henry Woods, celebrating their engagement...*

"Ivy?" My roommate Sarah called from the hallway. "Did you order takeout? There's a delivery guy downstairs."

"No," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

"Okay, weird." Her footsteps retreated. "Must be for 12B again."

I sank deeper into the couch—the one I'd found at a vintage store and refinished myself to save money for our house down payment. My gaze drifted to the framed photos on the mantle: Hank and me at his college graduation, at the beach last summer, at his startup's launch party where I'd stayed up three nights straight debugging his presentation software.

In every picture, I was smiling. In every picture, I was giving everything I had to a man who had just reduced me to a transaction.

My phone buzzed again—a group text from our friends.

*Hey everyone! Can't wait for Ivy and Hank's engagement party tomorrow night! Who's bringing champagne?*

I closed my eyes, feeling nausea rise in my throat.

---

Three hours later, I sat frozen in my car outside the Woods family estate, watching guests arrive for their monthly dinner gathering. I'd planned to attend tonight with Hank, expecting him to announce our engagement to his family officially.

Instead, I watched as Hank's mother greeted guests with a radiant smile, her hand resting on Gabriela Henry's arm.

"Welcome, welcome! So glad you could make it for our special announcement!"

My fingers gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles went white. Through the open car window, I could hear fragments of conversation floating across the manicured lawn.

"...engaged to Gabriela after all these years..."

"...always knew they'd end up together..."

"...poor Ivy, but really, she was never quite right for this family..."

My phone exploded with texts.

*Wait, what? Hank and Gabriela??*

*Ivy, is this some kind of joke?*

*Did you know about this? Call me!*

Each notification was another knife twist. I scrolled through them, seeing confusion turn to pity in real-time as the news spread through our social circle.

Then a photo appeared—Gabriela's Instagram story. Her hand extended toward the camera, a massive diamond ring catching the light. Behind her, the elaborate floral arch I'd designed for our wedding venue stood proudly, my careful sketches brought to life in white roses and eucalyptus.

"That's not..." I whispered, recognition dawning like ice water in my veins. "That's MY design."

Hank wasn't just replacing me. He was erasing me entirely.

---

Four days later, I sat in an all-night café, my hands wrapped around a mug of chamomile tea. The same café where, just a month ago, I'd been drowning my frustrations in wine while a stranger named Kevin Armstrong had listened with unexpected patience.

"You deserve better than this," he'd said that night, his voice low and certain. "If you ever need to make someone regret their choices, call me. I know a way to do it properly."

He'd handed me his business card then—heavy stock, embossed lettering, the kind of card that spoke of power and influence. I'd tucked it into my wallet and forgotten about it until tonight.

Now, as I pulled it out under the harsh fluorescent lights of the café, I remembered his exact words: "A contract marriage. Temporary, mutually beneficial, and just scandalous enough to make him wish he'd never let you go."

I dialed the number before I could lose my nerve.

"Armstrong," he answered on the second ring, his voice crisp despite the late hour.

"It's Ivy Campbell," I said, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "From the bar last month. You offered to help me make someone regret their choices."

A pause, then a low chuckle. "I remember. You're finally ready?"

"He's marrying someone else in four days," I said, tears threatening again. "Using my wedding designs. I need... I need to take back control."

"Where are you?" Kevin asked.

"The Silver Spoon Café on Fifth."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

As I hung up, I realized my hands had stopped shaking. In their place was something I hadn't felt in months—determination.