Saving Him, Losing My Love

The notification came at six-seventeen in the morning, pulling me from the first real sleep I'd managed in days.

My phone vibrated against the nightstand, once, twice, then continuously as alerts flooded in. I fumbled for it with clumsy fingers, expecting maybe a message from Grandmother Foster or news from the hospital where I'd spent so many sleepless nights.

What I found instead made my blood turn to ice.

Charleigh's Instagram post filled my screen. Jackson's hand rested on her flat stomach, his fingers splayed possessively. The diamond tennis bracelet I'd seen at Lumière caught the light. Her caption read: "Our little miracle 💕👶 #Blessed #BabyReyes #PowerCouple."

The photo had been posted three hours ago. Already it had accumulated over fifty thousand likes.

I scrolled through the comments with shaking hands, each word a fresh knife wound.

"Finally a woman worthy of Jackson Reyes!"

"That Foster girl must be dying inside lmaooo"

"Upgrade of the century 😍"

"Poor Maia thought she had a chance 💀"

Someone had tagged me. Multiple someones. My own Instagram was flooded with comments, messages, people I'd never met reveling in my humiliation like it was entertainment.

I sat there in my grandmother's guest room, still wearing yesterday's clothes because I'd been too exhausted to change, staring at proof that my sacrifice had meant nothing. Less than nothing. Jackson hadn't just betrayed me—he'd created a life with someone else while I was still wearing his engagement ring.

The sacred amulet I'd given him, the one that had protected my family for generations, now hung around the neck of a man who was planning a future that didn't include me.

Three more days. The ninth day was in three more days. After that, the amulet's bond would be permanent, the Celestial Fortune fully transferred. Jackson would be protected by my family's blessing while carrying another woman's child.

I touched my collarbone where the amulet used to rest against my skin, feeling phantom weight that wasn't there anymore. The empty space felt like a wound that wouldn't heal.

No. I couldn't let this stand. The Foster family legacy couldn't end like this, traded away for a man who valued me less than dirt on his shoes.

I had to get the amulet back.

My fingers trembled as I unblocked Jackson's number—I'd blocked it after the Lumière disaster, unable to bear seeing his name—and typed out a message.

"We need to talk. It's about the amulet. Please."

I hit send before I could second-guess myself, then waited, watching the screen with my heart hammering against my ribs.

Delivered. Then read.

The typing indicator appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Then nothing.

My phone buzzed. But it wasn't a text from Jackson. It was a notification that I'd been blocked.

Again.

I stared at the screen in disbelief, my throat closing. He wouldn't even let me speak to him. Wouldn't even—

Another notification. An unknown number.

"If you want to talk to Mr. Reyes, present yourself at Sapphire & Silk on Fifth Avenue. Immediately. Do not keep him waiting."

The message was formal, cold, sent from what was clearly an assistant or courier. Not even the courtesy of a personal response.

I looked at myself in the mirror across from the bed. My hair was tangled, my eyes hollow with exhaustion and tears I'd cried until there were no more left. The blue dress from Lumière was wrinkled where I'd slept in it, a pathetic reminder of how foolish I'd been to believe in happy endings.

Sapphire & Silk. The most exclusive boutique in the city, where socialites dropped tens of thousands on a single shopping trip.

This wasn't an invitation to talk peacefully. Jackson didn't do anything peacefully anymore.

But the amulet was mine. My family's. And I would get it back, whatever the cost.

I touched my collarbone again, that phantom weight pressing against my skin like a promise. Like a reminder of who I was before I'd given everything away for a man who'd never deserved it.

Three days until the ninth day. Three days to reclaim what was mine.

I changed into simple black pants and a white blouse, pulling my hair into a neat ponytail. No jewelry—I had nothing left to wear anyway. Just me, stripped bare of everything except determination.

When I arrived at Sapphire & Silk forty minutes later, I knew immediately that I'd walked into a trap.

The boutique's floor-to-ceiling windows revealed Jackson lounging on a velvet sofa, Charleigh draped across his lap like a prize he'd won. Around them clustered at least a dozen people—socialites I recognized from charity galas, sales staff holding champagne flutes, phones already out and recording.

This wasn't a conversation. It was a performance.

And I was the villain in Jackson's carefully staged production.