Chapter 22
“Cruise tickets. The good ones. Bahamas, maybe Santorini. Get the keys to that red convertible she once looked at. And I’m writing a letter. You seal it with wax. I want it to look like royalty handed it down.”
He gave a soft breath like he was about to ask why now, but he shut his mouth and just nodded. Smart man. He didn’t need to know the dreams had started. That her laughter haunted my fucking sleep. That sometimes I’d hear Cleo crying in the hallway and wake up gripping my chest.
Two days later, Mico came back. Didn’t look me in the eye.
“She didn’t open anything,” he said. “She didn’t even touch the necklace.”
My hands curled into fists on the marble counter. “Send more. Double it. She’s just being prideful. She wants me to grovel.”
Mico hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Alright, boss.”
He sent more. Even the photo from that first beach trip with Cleo, the one where I was carrying her on my shoulders and Therese was laughing behind me in that sundress. He had it framed in silver and sent it personally.
It came back in a box with one thing different… a thick red line drawn across my face. Clean. Precise. Like she’d done it without even blinking.
I didn’t speak for a whole minute.
Mico stood there, shifting uncomfortably, like he was afraid I’d throw the box at his head. I didn’t. I just turned and poured myself a drink.
Two nights later, I was scrolling mindlessly on my phone, bottle in hand, when I saw it.
“Save the Date: Ephraim and Therese. September 3.*
The Lambert family seal was stamped across the announcement like a fucking slap. Therese was smiling. That same soft smile she used to give me after sex or when Cleo took her first steps. And the comments were blowing up. Hundreds of shares. Thousands
of likes.
I stared at the screen until my thumb trembled.
“She wouldn’t… She fucking wouldn’t!” I muttered, pouring more whiskey into the glass. “She still loves me. Calderon bloodline should be mine. Therese should be mine. She’s only doing this to hurt me.”
I dialed Mico. It rang once before he picked up.
“Boss?”
“Is it real?” I asked. My voice was too calm and I hated it. “The post. The wedding. Is it a
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He was quiet for a moment.
“I saw the prenup signed. She’s really marrying him, boss. No bluff. It’s real.”
I didn’t say anything.
That was the night I stopped going home. The glass mansion felt like a graveyard. Every time I walked past Cleo’s room, I wanted to tear my skin off. Ruby kept calling. Crying. Begging. Leaving voicemails like “Baby, please come home. I miss you. I’m scared you’ll do something stupid. You need me.”
I didn’t answer.
I stayed in the penthouse. Bottles stacked untouched on the bar. Frames of Therese scattered on the coffee table. Sometimes I’d fall asleep on the floor, shirt half–open, phone in hand, watching old videos of her. She was always laughing. Or walking away. Or holding someone else’s hand.
And I hated how it still broke me.
Because I should’ve been the one holding her hand. I should’ve never let her go.
But now, someone else would be waiting at that altar. And I was just the fucking ghost she erased
**
THERESE’S POV
The black velvet hugged my body like second skin, and the slit ran high enough to make even the most seasoned heiresses glance twice. The gown wasn’t loud, but it screamed power in silence. Hundred million pesos of hand–stitched legacy from Paris. No necklace, no statement earrings. Just a pair of diamond studs and a look that said I no longer owed anyone softness.
Ephraim’s arm was warm under mine as we stepped out of the car. Cameras exploded the second my heel touched the pavement. Flashes. Gasps. Murmurs.
“Is that, Therese Calderon?”
“That gown is worth a hundred million!”
“She looks like she owns the damn city.”
“She does.”
I didn’t smile. I didn’t need to. I walked like I belonged there because I did. And I held Ephraim’s arm tighter, not for balance, but for anchor.
He leaned down, his lips brushing my temple as we walked up the grand steps of the gala
hall. “Let him see what he lost,” he murmured.
I didn’t reply. I didn’t have to.
Inside, the hall glittered like something out of a monarchy’s coronation. Chandeliers, string quartets, clinking glasses. The richest of the rich. Politicians, media magnates, oil heirs.
He left Me for Dead Now He Reas Me for Mercy
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He nodded slowly. “And?”
Chapter 22
“Cruise tickets. The good ones. Bahamas, maybe Santorini. Get the keys to that red convertible she once looked at. And I’m writing a letter. You seal it with wax. I want it to look like royalty handed it down.”
He gave a soft breath like he was about to ask why now, but he shut his mouth and just nodded. Smart man. He didn’t need to know the dreams had started. That her laughter haunted my fucking sleep. That sometimes I’d hear Cleo crying in the hallway and wake up gripping my chest.
Two days later, Mico came back. Didn’t look me in the eye.
“She didn’t open anything,” he said. “She didn’t even touch the necklace.”
My hands curled into fists on the marble counter. “Send more. Double it. She’s just being prideful. She wants me to grovel.”
Mico hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Alright, boss.”
He sent more. Even the photo from that first beach trip with Cleo, the one where I was carrying her on my shoulders and Therese was laughing behind me in that sundress. He had it framed in silver and sent it personally.
It came back in a box with one thing different… a thick red line drawn across my face. Clean. Precise. Like she’d done it without even blinking.
I didn’t speak for a whole minute.
Mico stood there, shifting uncomfortably, like he was afraid I’d throw the box at his head. I didn’t. I just turned and poured myself a drink.
Two nights later, I was scrolling mindlessly on my phone, bottle in hand, when I saw it.
“Save the Date: Ephraim and Therese. September 3.”
The Lambert family seal was stamped across the announcement like a fucking slap. Therese was smiling. That same soft smile she used to give me after sex or when Cleo took her first steps. And the comments were blowing up. Hundreds of shares. Thousands
of likes.
I stared at the screen until my thumb trembled.
“She wouldn’t… She fucking wouldn’t!” I muttered, pouring more whiskey into the glass. “She still loves me. Calderon bloodline should be mine. Therese should be mine. She’s only doing this to hurt me.”
I dialed Mico. It rang once before he picked up.
“Boss?”
“Is it real?” I asked. My voice was too calm and I hated it. “The post. The wedding. Is it a
ahaw?”
He Left Me for Dead, Now He Beas Me for Mercy
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He was quiet for a moment.
“I saw the prenup signed. She’s really marrying him, boss. No bluff. It’s real.”
I didn’t say anything.
That was the night I stopped going home. The glass mansion felt like a graveyard. Every time I walked past Cleo’s room, I wanted to tear my skin off. Ruby kept calling. Crying. Begging. Leaving voicemails like “Baby, please come home. I miss you. I’m scared you’ll do something stupid. You need me.”
I didn’t answer.
I stayed in the penthouse. Bottles stacked untouched on the bar. Frames of Therese scattered on the coffee table. Sometimes I’d fall asleep on the floor, shirt half–open, phone in hand, watching old videos of her. She was always laughing. Or walking away. Or holding someone else’s hand.
And I hated how it still broke me.
Because I should’ve been the one holding her hand. I should’ve never let her go.
But now, someone else would be waiting at that altar. And I was just the fucking ghost she erased
**
THERESE’S POV
The black velvet hugged my body like second skin, and the slit ran high enough to make even the most seasoned heiresses glance twice. The gown wasn’t loud, but it screamed power in silence. Hundred million pesos of hand–stitched legacy from Paris. No necklace, no statement earrings. Just a pair of diamond studs and a look that said I no longer owed anyone softness.
Ephraim’s arm was warm under mine as we stepped out of the car. Cameras exploded the second my heel touched the pavement. Flashes. Gasps. Murmurs.
“Is that, Therese Calderon?”
“That gown is worth a hundred million!”
“She looks like she owns the damn city.”
“She does.”
I didn’t smile. I didn’t need to. I walked like I belonged there because I did. And I held Ephraim’s arm tighter, not for balance, but for anchor.
He leaned down, his lips brushing my temple as we walked up the grand steps of the gala hall. “Let him see what he lost,” he murmured.
I didn’t reply. I didn’t have to.
Inside, the hall glittered like something out of a monarchy’s coronation. Chandeliers, string
Chapter 22
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quartets, clinking glasses. The richest of the rich. Politicians, media magnates, oil heirs,
turned their heads the moment we entered.
“Therese.”
“She’s glowing.”
“After everything, I’d be in a clinic. But look at her.”
“She rose higher.”
I greeted them all with nods and poised little smiles. One older woman, Senator Alonzo’s wife, held my hand and said, “You’ve shown such grace, dear. After all that betrayal. Strength looks good on you.”
I smiled back. “The past no longer matters. What I have now, that’s what counts.” Ephraim looked at me when I said that, and I knew he heard the weight in it. He reached for a glass of champagne and handed it to me.
Then the air changed.
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A hush rolled through the crowd like a cold gust. People turned. I turned.
Torren Massaro walked in like he owned the place, wearing a suit too sharp and a smirk too forced. Ruby clung to his arm in a blood–red dress that belonged on a different kind of runway. Her curls were perfect, and her lipstick matched her claws.
People started whispering immediately.
“Mr. Massaro brought his mistress.”
“Yikes. I feel the tension already.”
“Do you think the two men will fight?”
“Please let them fight.”
4
Torren’s eyes locked on me like a curse. He didn’t blink. Didn’t even try to hide it. Ruby leaned into him, whispering something, but he barely moved. His hand didn’t even tighten around hers.
I didn’t flinch. I stood straighter. Ephraim moved subtly closer, his fingers brushing mine before sliding around my waist.
Then he kissed me.
Right there, under the lights, in front of everyone, Ephraim kissed me. Not rushed. Not theatrical. Just firm, intentional, and real. I kissed him back because I meant it.
I saw Torren’s jaw clench.
Ruby’s hand slid off his arm like she just realized she was holding a mannequin.
Then Ephraim turned, not breaking eye contact with Torren. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried through the murmurs.
Chapter 22
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“Stop sending those useless things to my bride,” he said, smooth and calm like he wasn’t talking about a man who once swore to protect me.
The whispers grew louder. Phones were being pulled out.
Torren looked like he’d swallowed glass. I thought he might say something, but Ephraim didn’t give him the chance.
“You can’t compete with what I give her,” he added. “You never could.”
I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to. I just curled my fingers tighter around Ephraim’s arm and tilted my head high.
Torren could watch me from a distance now.
