Fiancé's Affair & Asset Theft

The silence in our penthouse felt suffocating after Carter left. I stood there for what felt like hours, still clutching the champagne bottle, the wedding dress now feeling like a costume from someone else's life. The celebration I'd imagined—toasting our success, planning our future—had evaporated into nothing.

I needed answers. My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and typed "Daisy Watson" into Instagram's search bar. It didn't take long to find her—there were only so many Daisy Watsons in our city, and fewer still who would be connected to Carter's circles.

Her profile picture showed a young woman with perfectly styled blonde hair and a bright smile that seemed almost too innocent. But it was her recent posts that made my blood run cold.

There was my car. My Rolls-Royce Cullinan, gleaming under the afternoon sun outside Château Marmont. The caption read: "Lunch at my favorite spot! 💎✨ #blessed #livingmybestlife" The location tag confirmed it—she'd been to three different high-end restaurants this week alone.

I scrolled down, my heart pounding harder with each image. My car outside Rodeo Drive boutiques. My car parked at a luxury spa in Beverly Hills. My car at a rooftop bar downtown, Daisy posing beside it like she owned it, her hand resting possessively on the hood.

The comments made me sick.

"Girl, you're living the DREAM! 😍"

"That car is GOALS! You've really made it!"

"Daisy, you deserve all this luxury after everything you've been through! 💕"

She was responding to each comment with heart emojis and humble-bragging responses: "Just grateful for all my blessings!" and "Hard work pays off! 🙏"

Hard work. She was calling driving around in my car hard work.

I screenshot every post, my fingers moving frantically across the screen. There were dozens of them, dating back over two weeks. Two weeks. Carter had lied about how long she'd had it. This wasn't some emergency loan for a job interview—this was Daisy Watson living a fantasy life with my property while I took rideshares like some college student.

The wedding dress suddenly felt too tight, constricting around my chest as rage built inside me. I yanked off the veil, throwing it onto the couch where Carter had been sitting so casually just minutes before.

My phone buzzed with a text from Carter: "At hospital with Daisy. Don't wait up."

Don't wait up. On the night I'd secured twelve million dollars for his company.

I didn't respond. Instead, I called him directly. It went straight to voicemail.

The next morning, I was waiting outside Carter's office building at eight sharp, still wearing yesterday's makeup but now in a sharp black business suit. I'd barely slept, spending the night documenting every single post Daisy had made with my car, every comment, every location. The evidence was damning.

Carter emerged from his BMW—not my car, I noted bitterly—looking perfectly put-together as always. His surprise at seeing me was quickly masked by that practiced smile.

"Andrea! You're up early. How are you feeling after yesterday? I know the contract negotiations were exhausting—"

"Where's my car, Carter?"

His smile faltered slightly. "I told you, Daisy needed—"

"For two weeks?" I held up my phone, showing him the screenshots. "She's been using my car to play pretend rich girl all over the city. Look at this."

Carter barely glanced at the screen. "Andrea, you're being paranoid."

"Paranoid?" My voice rose, drawing stares from other pedestrians. "She's posting pictures of my car like it belongs to her! She's been to every expensive restaurant in LA, and her followers think she bought it herself!"

"So what if she's enjoying herself a little? The girl's had a hard life. She deserves some happiness." Carter's tone was dismissive, condescending. "You have everything, Andrea. Can't you spare a little kindness for someone less fortunate?"

"This isn't about kindness! This is about respect!" I stepped closer, my voice shaking with fury. "You gave away my property without asking. You lied about how long she's had it. And now you're gaslighting me for being upset about it?"

"Gaslighting?" Carter laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Jesus, Andrea. Listen to yourself. You're being completely unreasonable. Jealous of a charity case."

Charity case. The words hit me like a physical blow. "Jealous? Carter, I just made your company twelve million dollars, and you're calling me jealous because I want my own car back?"

"You're being controlling and selfish." His voice was getting louder now, more aggressive. People were definitely staring. "This is exactly why I didn't want to discuss this with you. I knew you'd overreact."

"Overreact?" I felt something snap inside me. "You gave away my car for two weeks without telling me, your girlfriend is flaunting it all over social media, and I'm overreacting?"

Carter's face darkened. "She's not my girlfriend, Andrea. Don't be ridiculous."

But something in his eyes—a flicker of guilt, of defensiveness—told me everything I needed to know.

"You're unbelievable," I whispered.

Carter turned away, pulling out his car keys. "I don't have time for this drama. Some of us have real work to do."

He started walking toward his BMW, dismissing me like I was nothing. Like the woman who'd just secured his company's future was nothing.

"Carter, we're not done talking about this!"

He didn't even turn around. "Yes, we are."

I followed him, my heels clicking against the pavement. "You can't just walk away from me!"

"Watch me." He reached his car and yanked open the door.

Something desperate and furious rose up in me. I reached for his arm, trying to make him face me, make him acknowledge what he'd done. But Carter jerked away from my touch so violently that I stumbled backward.

My heel caught on an uneven piece of sidewalk, and I went down hard, my knees scraping against the concrete. The sound of fabric tearing filled the air as my dress caught on the rough pavement.

Pain shot through my legs, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation burning in my chest as I looked up at Carter from the ground. For a moment, he hesitated, his hand on the car door.

Then he got in and drove away, leaving me bleeding on the sidewalk like I meant nothing at all.