When My Fiancée Betrayed Me, I Ended It All

I stared at her, calm and steady.

“Why not buy two?” I asked.

“I’ll have one sent straight to Derek.”

The air froze.

Cassandra’s fingers on my chest stiffened. The coquettish charm she had been weaving a moment ago drained from her face. She snatched her hand back and shifted half an inch away.

“Lucas, what are you talking about?!” Her voice was sharp, defensive.

“Why bring up Derek out of nowhere? You’re being completely unreasonable!”

Her brows knitted; her lips pressed into a tight, angry line.

“I just saw a bed I liked and wanted to change ours. Are you really that petty? Derek’s working so hard on his own—what’s wrong with me helping him as a friend?”

She gave a small, incredulous laugh.

“You’re a grown man, yet you make a scene over every little thing.”

The words landed exactly as she meant them to. She was turning it on me again.

Petty. Nitpicky. Overreacting.

Every time she used that same tone—disappointment, accusation, a touch of disdain—until I began to doubt myself. Maybe I was too narrow-minded. Maybe I was overreacting.

Derek had it hard. Derek just graduated. Derek’s family wasn’t well off.

So of course, it was acceptable for him to strip our wedding room bare.

Of course, my wife could hand out my belongings as if they were nothing.

In the past, seeing her like this, I’d fold. Tell myself it wasn’t worth arguing over things. Swallow my frustration and move on.

But not this time.

Under the light, her cheeks were flushed with excitement; in her beautiful eyes was a naked protectiveness that had nothing to do with me. I felt it then—a heaviness deeper than anger, sharper than disappointment. A hollowness that drained even the desire to argue.

The longer I stayed silent, the more her temper rose. She leapt to her feet, voice rising:

“Lucas, do you even think I’ll marry you?

If you keep acting like this, we’re done!”

It was her usual weapon. Before, the mere hint of a breakup had been enough to make me apologize, compromise, cave.

But this time, I simply looked up at her and said, calm as a still pond,

“Alright. Then let’s break up.”

She blinked, stunned, as if she’d misheard. The fury on her face faltered. Then her cheeks flushed red, a storm of shame, disbelief, and rage.

“Fine! You’re amazing, Lucas! Don’t regret it!”

She grabbed her clothes and makeup, dressing furiously. Ten minutes later she stormed out with her bag, the door slamming so hard the walls shuddered.

I took out my phone and dialed my father.

“Dad,” I said quietly, “I’m not getting married. Please ask the Lane family if the engagement Grandpa arranged is still valid.”

There was a pause—no questions, no advice. Finally, my father sighed.

“Son, I told you. You must find a wife of equal status.”

I gave a bitter smile.

A little after one in the morning, my phone lit up. A message from Cassandra’s best friend:

Lucas, come quickly.

Cassandra’s drunk—she keeps calling your name.

She even said she’s going to slit her wrists!

Attached was a video.

In the dim glow of poolside lights, Cassandra sat slumped, hair disheveled, a ghost of the woman I once thought I loved.