1 I dated Arthur for three years. At first, our friends thought he was just playing around, but eventually, they were wishing us a lifetime of happiness and a house full of kids. But I was the only one who knew the truth. Behind closed doors, almost every night, he’d whisper to me: We don’t do commitment, babe. Just love. Finally, the day came when his family demanded he marry for status. He gave me a twenty-million-dollar breakup fee. I took it without a second thought. I turned right around, dialed his little brother’s number, and said: “Ten million to buy you for the rest of your life. Is that enough?” When Arthur slid that black card across the table, his face was as unreadable as ever. I searched his features, desperate to find a single trace of guilt or reluctance. Unfortunately, I found nothing. Well, not exactly nothing. There was a shift, but it wasn’t what I wanted to see. For the first time in three years, those usually affectionate eyes of his held something else—a heavy, exhausted kind of relief. “Cassidy,” he murmured, deliberately softening his voice. “The family arranged a marriage. It’s the Sinclair girl. You know how it is. We need this alliance.” I didn’t say a word. I just picked up my cold brew and took a slow sip. It tasted bitter. “These past three years…” he trailed off, seemingly weighing his words carefully. “I haven’t treated you badly. From now on, whatever resources the company has, whatever your studio needs—just say the word.” I set the glass down. The sharp clink against the marble tabletop felt deafening in the dead quiet of the private room. “Twenty million?” I stared at the card sitting between us and let out a laugh. Arthur blinked, clearly thrown off. He had probably expected tears, screaming, the classic What did I mean to you? speech. He might have even braced himself to take a glass of iced coffee to the face. After all, when my company was just getting off the ground and my cash flow dried up, he wouldn’t even lend me half a million. His excuse? Money ruins romance. Now, suddenly, he was feeling generous. “Yeah,” he nodded, his tone slipping back into that arrogant, condescending charity he wore so well. “It’s enough for you to buy a nice place out of the city, keep running your studio, and live a good life.” Live a good life. How thoughtful. It was as if I’d been nothing more than a canary he kept in a gilded cage for three years. Now that the master was getting a new pet, he was handing me a severance package and telling me to fend for myself. I reached out and picked up the card. It was cold to the touch, its edges so sharp I felt like they could slice my fingers open. “So, you’re finally ready to do commitment, huh?” Just not with me. I looked up at him, my smile widening. Arthur’s face instantly froze. He opened his mouth to say something, then swallowed it back down. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes, swiftly replaced by irritation. He definitely hadn’t anticipated this reaction. “Cassidy, don’t do this…” He reached out, trying to grab my hand. I pulled away smoothly, slipping the card into my purse with a crisp, fluid motion. “Alright. We’re square.” I fired the words out, refusing to give him a single syllable more. The color drained from Arthur’s face. He watched me stand up and grab the Hermès bag he’d bought me for my birthday last year. Back then, he’d said it suited me. Looking back, he probably just thought a girl from my background was only worthy of a nice bag. “You don’t have anything you want to ask me?” He couldn’t help himself. There was a faint trace of expectation in his voice, one he probably didn’t even realize was there. I stopped at the door and glanced back at him. The overhead lighting cast harsh shadows across his face. This man, who used to make my heart race so hard I couldn’t sleep, was sitting there looking like a decaying statue—beautiful on the outside, rotting from within. “Ask what?” I tilted my head. “Ask if you loved me? Ask if the last three years were just a game to you? Or maybe ask…” I paused, flashing a smile as gentle as a spring breeze. “Ask if, every night when you whispered ‘We don’t do commitment, just love,’ you were already planning for today?” Arthur went completely pale. I turned the handle, walked out, and never looked back. The hallway was endlessly long, lined with expensive Persian rugs that swallowed the sound of my footsteps. This private club was one of Arthur’s favorite haunts. In three years, I’d accompanied him here countless times. I’d watched him close deals, entertain friends, even met his parents here. And every single time, he introduced me as a friend. “Cassidy is a bit shy. She’s not really into formal settings.” That was always his excuse. Then, when no one was looking, he’d squeeze my palm and steal a comforting kiss in some dark corner. I bought it. Or rather, I forced myself to buy it. When the elevator reached the lobby and the doors slid open, I caught my reflection in the mirrored walls. I was wearing a white dress. It was Arthur’s favorite style. He used to tell me I looked like moonlight in white—pure, soft, clean. Thinking about it now, moonlight doesn’t demand commitment. It shines for a moment, then fades away. How fitting. Stepping out of the club, the April night air hit me, carrying a sharp chill. I stood by the curb and pulled a cigarette from my purse. Arthur didn’t know I smoked. He once said it wasn’t a good look for a girl, so I never lit up around him. At least I didn’t have to pretend anymore. The second the lighter sparked, I dialed a number that had been sitting in my phone for three years, completely untouched. It rang five times before someone picked up. A lazy, gravelly voice came through, thick with sleep. “Yeah?” I could hear the thumping bass of electronic music in the background. “Jaxon,” I said his name, my voice so steady it surprised even me. “Ten million to buy you for the rest of your life. Is that enough?” Dead silence on the other end. And then, I heard him laugh. It was a low, rumbling sound vibrating through the speaker, carrying a raw, magnetic edge. “Cassidy?” He didn’t even hesitate on my name. “My brother just dumped your ass, and you’re already coming to me? That desperate?” “Desperate.” I exhaled a lungful of smoke, watching the pale cloud dissolve into the night. “Extremely desperate. So, is it enough?” Jaxon laughed again. “Send me the pin,” he said. “We’ll talk in person.” Hanging up the phone, I stood by the street, waiting for my ride. The night breeze caught the hem of my dress, dragging my thoughts back to a night exactly like this, three years ago. It had been April too, the air biting with the same cool edge. I had just graduated college and landed a job as a strategist at an advertising firm. Arthur was our biggest client, launching a new product line for his family’s empire. The first time I saw him was during the pitch meeting. He sat at the head of the long table, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up carelessly to his elbows, flashing a watch worth more than my life. After my presentation, he gave a curt nod. Didn’t say a word. But after the meeting, he pulled me aside. “Miss,” he said, handing me his business card with a slick smile. “The proposal is solid, but it’s missing something.” “Like what?” I asked. “Ambition.” He replied smoothly. “It’s too safe. Reads exactly like something a junior associate would write. The market you’re trying to capture doesn’t want caution. It wants to be surprised.” I took the card, my fingers brushing against his. He was warm. “And what exactly does a surprise look like to you?” I stared right back at him. Arthur raised an eyebrow. He told me later that was the exact moment I caught his attention. Most girls were either a nervous wreck around him or tripping over themselves to flatter him. But me? I questioned him. “Let’s grab dinner tonight,” he had said. “I’ll show you.” That dinner lasted three hours. We talked about everything from marketing tactics to art philosophy, from corporate warfare to life goals. Arthur had a silver tongue, but he knew how to listen, too. When he looked at me, it felt like his eyes held the entire night sky. When he finally dropped me off outside my apartment building, he said, “Cassidy.” It was the first time he used my first name. “I really admire you.” “Thank you,” I kept it polite. He smiled, reaching out to tuck a windblown strand of hair behind my ear. “You don’t have to be so formal,” he murmured. I didn’t answer. “I know what you’re thinking.” He stepped closer. He smelled like cedarwood mixed with the faint, intoxicating scent of red wine. “You think I’m some rich playboy looking for a one-night stand?” I did. “I’m not.” He looked at me, dead serious. “I just think it’s rare to find someone who actually gets me. We could try this. But without all the cliché baggage.” “Like what?” I asked. “Like commitment. Like marriage. Like the future.” He said, “That stuff is too heavy. Let’s just focus on right now. The feeling. Let’s just talk about… love.” When he said the word love, his voice was so soft it sounded like poetry. Like an idiot under a spell, I nodded. It wasn’t until much later that I realized every word he spoke that night was a meticulously crafted disclaimer. We don’t do commitment, just love. What a romantically packaged lie. It was so romantic it blinded me to the simple truth: A man who refuses to take on responsibility has absolutely no real heart to give. Twenty minutes later, a matte black sports car screeched to a halt in front of me. The window rolled down, revealing a face that looked strikingly similar to Arthur’s, but the vibe was entirely different. Arthur was polished, restrained, like a flawlessly cut diamond. Jaxon, on the other hand, was exactly what his reputation suggested—wild, reckless, like a jagged, unpolished stone. He had dyed his hair ash blonde. Three black studs lined the cartilage of his ear. The top two buttons of his black shirt were undone, showing off the faint edges of a tattoo tracing his collarbone. “Get in.” He jutted his chin toward the passenger seat. I pulled the door open and slid inside. The interior smelled like faint tobacco and some sharp, icy cologne. “Where to?” I asked. “Somewhere we can actually talk.” Jaxon hit the gas, and the car tore through the night like a sleek shadow. I buckled my seatbelt and turned to look at him. I’d seen this face a handful of times at family gatherings over the years. He was always sitting in the farthest corner, head buried in his phone, blending into the wallpaper. The illegitimate son. The brother Arthur looked down on the most. “The way you’re looking at me,” Jaxon broke the silence, his tone dripping with amusement, “is like you’re trying to appraise a piece of meat.” “I am.” I didn’t deny it. “I’m trying to see if you’re actually worth ten million.” He chuckled, taking a sharp turn down a narrow alleyway with one hand casually draped over the steering wheel. “How much did my saint of a brother give you? Twenty mil? Thirty?” “Twenty.” I told the truth. I figured there was no point in hiding anything from him now. “So you’re throwing ten at me,” he shot me a sideways glance, his eyes razor-sharp. “What about the other ten? Retirement fund?” “No,” I said flatly. “That ten million is your seed money.” The car slammed to a halt. We were parked outside a hidden speakeasy. The sign was tiny, just a neon Whisper flickering in the dark. Jaxon killed the engine and stared at me through the dim light. “Make it make sense.” His voice dropped, losing all its playful edge. “Cassidy, I’m not an idiot. You just got dumped by my brother, and five minutes later you’re calling me, offering ten million. What the hell is your game?” I met his gaze head-on. “I need you to do something for me.” “What?” “Simple. Blow up Arthur’s engagement.” Silence. A long, suffocating silence. Jaxon stared at me for a solid minute, and then he just started laughing. A loud, chest-deep laugh that had him leaning over the steering wheel, wiping a tear from his eye. “Fascinating,” he breathed, still chuckling. “Absolutely fascinating. Cassidy, I severely underestimated you.” He leaned in closer. The smell of tobacco suddenly felt suffocatingly intimate. “Do you have any idea how important this marriage is to the family?” He kept his voice low, his face inches from mine. “The Sinclairs are sitting on the zoning permits for the Eastside development. The family’s new commercial hub is dead in the water without that land. If he marries the girl, he gets the permits, and his spot as the heir is untouchable. But if the wedding goes up in flames…” “The old man cuts him loose,” I finished the thought. Jaxon raised an eyebrow. “You know a lot.” “Three years,” I said coldly. “Is plenty of time to learn where the bodies are buried.” Like the encrypted files on Arthur’s laptop. Like the audio recordings of him drunk, complaining that marrying the Sinclair girl was selling his soul. Like the trail of corporate resources he funneled under the table just to keep me happy. I kept the receipts for all of it. “How exactly do you want to play this?” Jaxon asked. “You have proof of Arthur’s shady dealings.” I locked eyes with him. “Three years ago, when he acquired the Eastside plot, he hired thugs to intimidate the locals to drive the price down. He buried it, but you kept the evidence. Am I right?” Jaxon’s eyes shifted. “How do you know that?” “Because you hate him,” I said softly. “I haven’t forgotten how your mother died.” The air in the car instantly turned to ice. Jaxon’s mother had been the old man’s mistress. She died under highly suspicious circumstances. The family spun it as an accident, but everyone in their circle knew Arthur’s mother—the legitimate matriarch—had her fingerprints all over it. “So,” I pushed forward, “you give me that evidence. I’ll make sure the old man sees it, and I’ll make you look like the hero. In exchange, you get me the proof that Arthur isn’t exactly a loyal fiancé, and you drop it right in the Sinclair girl’s lap.” “That spoiled princess hates being lied to more than anything.” Jaxon leaned back against his seat, his fingers absentmindedly drumming a rhythm on the steering wheel. “How long have you been planning this?” he asked. “Since the first time he told me we weren’t doing commitment.” He smirked, his eyes narrowing like a fox sizing up its prey. “Deal.” He held out his hand. “But ten million isn’t going to cut it.” “What do you want?” “I want Arthur’s seat at the table,” he said. “When the dust settles, the VP spot belongs to me.” I looked at his outstretched hand, but I didn’t take it. “Fine,” I said. “But you have to prove you’re actually useful first.” “How?” “Three days from now. The family gala. The Sinclairs will be there.” I pulled a small recording pen from my bag and hit play. Arthur’s voice floated through the car, slurred and drunk: “Marriage? I’m practically selling myself. That Sinclair bitch is a nightmare. If it wasn’t for her family’s land…” I clicked it off. Jaxon’s eyes lit up. “You want me to accidentally play this at the gala?” he asked. “No,” I slipped the pen back into my bag. “That’s way too obvious. I need you to orchestrate a moment. Make sure his precious fiancée overhears it purely by chance.” “And then?” “And then,” I smiled, “we get to see exactly how much of a nightmare the Sinclair girl really is.” After parting ways with Jaxon, I went back to my apartment. It was a place Arthur had bought—a sprawling, two-thousand-square-foot penthouse right in the heart of the city. He’d said, “Cassidy, this is close to my office. It’ll make it easier for me to come see you.” Easier for him to come see me. It was never our home. It was just a convenient pit stop. I unlocked the door, and the motion-sensor lights flickered on, casting a warm glow over the entryway. Sitting right by the door was a pair of plush pink slippers. Arthur bought them. He said girls should wear pink. I kicked off my heels and walked barefoot across the freezing marble floor. I opened the fridge. It was packed with imported groceries. Arthur had hired a private nutritionist to prep my meals, delivered daily, claiming it was for my “health.” So thoughtful. I grabbed a bottle of ice water and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, the city was alive—a sea of neon lights and endless traffic. From here, I had a perfect view of his family’s corporate headquarters. The lights in the top-floor office were still burning. He was probably still working. Or out to dinner with his fiancée. My mind drifted back to a night about a year ago. We’d been together for two years by then. Things felt stable. Comfortable. My friends had started teasing me. “He treats you so well. When’s he going to put a ring on it?” I always just laughed it off. That night, Arthur had a few drinks. He was resting his head on my shoulder, lazily twirling a strand of my hair around his finger. “Cassidy,” he mumbled. “Rick asked me again today when I’m going to marry you.” Rick was his best friend, the only guy who actually knew the truth about us. “What did you tell him?” I asked. “I told him,” he chuckled, his breath warm against my neck, “that marriage is a transaction, but love is art. And I refuse to let our art turn into something vulgar.” What a beautiful way to spin it. Art. He called us art. But art requires an audience. It requires a gallery. It requires validation. Our art was locked in the dark, never allowed to see the light of day. “So you’re never going to marry me, are you?” I whispered. Arthur went quiet for a long time. Then he said, “Cassidy, we don’t do commitment. We just do love. Isn’t that better?” “I love you,” he kissed my forehead. “That’s enough.” Enough. Back then, I actually managed to convince myself that it was fine. Looking back now, it was pathetic. How much love can a man really give you when he won’t even give you the dignity of a title? I walked into the study and pulled open the safe hidden behind the bookshelf. There were no diamonds inside. No stacks of cash. Just a few very specific items: A flash drive containing a complete backup of every encrypted file on Arthur’s laptop. Including that little backdoor deal he made with a rival firm, trading his family’s resources for leverage on a side project. A voice recorder filled with every drunken confession he’d made since our first month together. Audio of him trashing his family, mocking the arranged marriage, bragging about his cutthroat tactics. A leather notebook detailing every single corporate expense he’d authorized for me over the last three years. Dates, amounts, purposes, the names of the fixers. And a stack of photos. The one right on top was taken three months ago, the day Arthur’s mother paid me a visit. He was out of town, and she practically kicked my front door down. She was dripping in bespoke tailoring and designer leather, radiating the terrifying authority of a matriarch who owned the world. “Miss.” She sat on my sofa, completely ignoring the tea I offered her. “I’ll get straight to the point. My son is getting married. To the Sinclair girl.” I stood in front of her, keeping my mouth shut. “I know what the two of you have been doing.” She looked at me like I was a piece of trash stuck to the bottom of her shoe. “I don’t care if young men want to play around. But there are lines that cannot be crossed.” “He is the heir to this family. His marriage dictates our entire future. You,” she paused, letting the silence hang, “are entirely inadequate.” I didn’t blink. “I heard you’re running a little startup?” She pulled a checkbook from her designer bag, scribbled on it, and slid it across the coffee table. “Five million. That should be plenty for your little business. Leave him alone. Stop dragging him down.” I stared at the check, and I laughed. “Ma’am,” I started, keeping my voice perfectly level. “How much do you think your son is actually worth?” The color drained from her face. “Excuse me?” “I mean,” I leaned over, picked up the check, and slowly ripped it in half right in front of her eyes. “To me? Arthur isn’t worth this much.” She shot up from the sofa. “You—!” “Also,” I tossed the torn pieces into the garbage can. “Do me a favor. Tell him that if he wants to break up, he needs to come do it himself. Sending his mommy to do his dirty work is just pathetic.” She was shaking with rage. She snatched her bag and marched toward the door. Before leaving, she turned back and glared at me. “You’re going to regret this, you little bitch!” “I already do,” I smiled sweetly. “I regret not realizing sooner that everyone in your family is cut from the exact same garbage cloth.” I had the housekeeper secretly snap a picture of that exact moment. Her furious, purple face contrasted beautifully with my calm, collected smile. It was a masterpiece of irony. I placed the photo back into the safe and locked it. My phone buzzed. A text from Jaxon: Tomorrow. 8 PM. The family gala. She’s wearing a sapphire gown and an emerald necklace. The move happens by the garden fountain. I replied: Got it. Another text popped up: Are you seriously going through with this? You guys had three years. That’s got to mean something. I stared at the screen. I typed out a response, deleted it, typed another, and finally just sent: He threw it away first.
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