He Left Me for a Richer Bride

In the middle of the night, my phone buzzed with a new friend request. I clicked “Agree,” and messages immediately popped up:

“Sis, I got your apology.”

“Don’t be naughty next time.”

“Still awake? Waiting for your boyfriend?”

“Sis, you’re old now. Staying up late just makes you age faster. Don’t wait for him—he’s already asleep.”

My chest burned with fury. I sent her a single warning:

“If you don’t return the money within one day, I’ll call the police.”

She replied with a tongue-out emoji, smug and taunting. For the first time, I felt a flicker of fear.

The next day, I went to Adrian’s private room at the bar to demand my card and money back.

But just as my hand touched the doorknob, I froze. Voices carried through the door.

“Adrian, why do Serena’s scores keep dropping? She’s at thirty now, while Miranda is a hundred!”

“How does Miranda please you? From what you’ve said, your bride in two months will definitely be her.”

“If Serena found out, wouldn’t she be devastated? She’s loved you for seven years.”

Adrian’s voice came, careless and mocking:

“Miranda deserves a hundred. She’s young, she pleases me, she doesn’t nag. If Serena were better than her in even one thing, she wouldn’t be rated so low.”

Someone laughed. “So if you marry Miranda, will you break up with Serena?”

He smirked. “Break up? Why bother? I still sleep with her sometimes. She’s easy to handle—a perfect mistress.”

My heart felt as if it had been ripped apart by claws. My whole body trembled. Seven years of devotion—all rotted away in an instant.

Without hesitation, I dialed 911.

“My ex-boyfriend stole 15,000 dollars from me. Please help.”

The police arrived quickly. I pushed open the door with them at my side. Adrian’s face went rigid, like he’d just swallowed poison. He glared at me.

“How long are you going to act like this? You stormed off in a fit, and I didn’t chase you down. And now this?”

I stared at him coldly. “I don’t need your comfort. We’re over. Give me back my money.”

He laughed bitterly. “Your money? Fine. Money it is.” He yanked a bank card from his wallet and slammed it onto the table. “Take two hundred thousand!”

His friends quickly smoothed things over, telling the police it was just a couple’s quarrel. I swallowed my humiliation, took the card, and left. Behind me, I heard one of them mutter in disbelief:

“Serena was always so gentle. How could she suddenly call the police on Adrian? What’s gotten into her?”

That night, my mother called with her familiar, earnest tone.

“Adrian told me you need to control your temper. Don’t misunderstand him and that salesperson. And hitting people—how could you do that? He said to come back once you’ve cooled down. You two are getting married soon, so stop making a fuss.”

My mother adored him. For years, Adrian had courted her favor with gifts on holidays and frequent phone calls. She treated him like her own son, always taking his side whenever we argued.

“I broke up with him,” I said flatly.

She didn’t believe me. She went on lecturing, assuming I was just being hotheaded again.

Meanwhile, Damien had returned earlier than expected. He was nervous, afraid I might change my mind.