Emma's POV
I throw clothes into my suitcase without thinking. Shirts. Jeans. My laptop. My mother's jewelry box—the small wooden one with her initials carved on top.
Twenty-six minutes left.
My hands won't stop shaking. Am I really doing this? Running away with a stranger? A billionaire I've never met who somehow knows everything about my life?
This is crazy.
But staying is crazier.
I grab my toothbrush from the bathroom. That's when I see it—Alexander's cologne on the counter. His razor. His face wash. Evidence of six years living together scattered across the sink.
Anger burns through my chest.
I sweep my arm across the counter. Everything crashes to the floor. Glass breaks. Liquid spills. Good.
I want to break more things. Want to scream. Want to set this whole apartment on fire.
But I don't have time.
Twenty-three minutes.
I zip up my suitcase and grab my wedding dress off the closet door. The silver thread catches the light. All those hours of work. All that hope stitched into fabric.
Damien said to bring it. Said I'd need it when I'm ready to face them again.
I don't know what he means. But I fold the dress carefully and put it in a garment bag.
My phone buzzes. Text from Lily, my coworker from the restaurant: "Girl, I just saw on Instagram. Victoria posted about her wedding TOMORROW. To YOUR Alexander. What the hell is happening? Are you okay?"
So Victoria is already posting about it. Already celebrating stealing my life.
I type back: "Long story. I'll explain later. I promise."
Another text comes in, this one from my friend Maya: "Emma, please tell me the Instagram post is a joke. Please tell me Victoria isn't actually marrying Alexander tomorrow."
Word is spreading fast. By morning, everyone will know. Emma Chen got left the day before her wedding. Poor, pathetic Emma.
I can't think about that right now.
Nineteen minutes.
I do one final check of the apartment. Did I forget anything important? My eyes land on the framed photo on the nightstand—me and Alexander on our first date six years ago. We look so happy. So in love. So naive.
I pick up the frame and stare at my younger self. That girl had no idea what was coming. No idea the man in the photo would destroy her life.
I throw the frame in the trash.
Then I walk to the kitchen and grab my coffee cup from this morning. The one I was holding when Alexander came home. When my world ended.
I throw it against the wall as hard as I can.
It shatters. Pieces scatter across the floor. Brown coffee stains the white wall.
It feels good. So I grab another cup. Throw it. Smash.
Another one. Crash.
Plates. Bowls. Every piece of cheap dishware we own—that I own, since I paid for everything.
I destroy it all.
When I'm done, the kitchen looks like a war zone. Broken pieces everywhere. My chest heaves. Tears stream down my face.
But I feel lighter somehow. Like I broke more than just dishes.
Fourteen minutes.
I grab my suitcase, my purse, and my garment bag. Take one last look at the apartment I've called home for four years. The place where I thought I'd live happily ever after.
I was wrong about everything.
I'm about to leave when my phone rings.
Alexander.
My finger hovers over the decline button. I should ignore him. Should let him wonder where I am. But part of me wants to hear his voice one more time. Wants to hear what excuse he'll give now.
I answer. "What do you want?"
"Emma, thank God." Alexander sounds relieved. "I've been worried about you. You haven't answered any of my texts."
"Maybe because you dumped me for my stepsister?"
"I didn't dump you. I explained the situation. Victoria is dying—"
"Stop saying that!" I shout. "Stop acting like this is some noble sacrifice! You're choosing her over me. That's called dumping someone, Alexander."
"You're not listening." His voice gets harder now. Colder. "Victoria has six months to live. Six months, Emma. After she's gone, we can get married. We can have our forever. I just need you to wait."
"Wait," I repeat flatly. "You want me to wait for you like some backup plan?"
"It's not like that—"
"Then what is it like? Explain it to me. Because from where I'm standing, you're asking me to accept secondhand love. To take whatever scraps you have left after my stepsister dies."
"That's a horrible way to say it!"
"But it's accurate." I grab my suitcase handle. "I won't do it, Alexander. I won't wait. I won't be your second choice. Find someone else to play backup bride."
"If you really loved me, you'd understand!" Alexander's voice rises. "You'd be compassionate! Victoria is DYING and all you can think about is yourself!"
"All I can think about is myself?" I laugh bitterly. "I worked three jobs for you. I gave you my inheritance. I paid our rent for four years. I buried my dreams so you could chase yours. But sure, I'm the selfish one."
"You're twisting everything—"
"I'm done talking. Goodbye, Alexander."
"Emma, wait—"
I hang up. Block his number. Then I block Victoria's number too. And Patricia's. And Dad's.
They can't hurt me anymore if I don't let them reach me.
Eleven minutes.
I drag my suitcase to the door. My phone buzzes again. Unknown number. Not Damien—different number.
I answer cautiously. "Hello?"
"Ms. Chen?" A woman's professional voice. "This is Jennifer Walsh from Walsh and Associates Law Firm. I'm calling on behalf of Richard Chen regarding his daughter Emma Chen."
My father hired a lawyer? My stomach drops.
"I'm Emma Chen."
"Ms. Chen, I'm calling to inform you that your father is filing paperwork to access your trust fund early. Due to extenuating family circumstances involving your sister Victoria's medical condition, he believes—"
"She's not my sister. And there is no medical condition."
"—he believes the funds would be better allocated to immediate medical needs rather than waiting three more years. As executor of the trust, he has legal grounds to make this decision. The paperwork will be filed tomorrow morning."
Tomorrow. The same day as the wedding.
They planned this perfectly. Distract me with the wedding while they steal my money.
"You can't do this," I say.
"Actually, Ms. Chen, we can. Your father has full authority as executor until you turn thirty. I'm calling as a courtesy to inform you of his intentions. If you wish to contest this, you'll need to hire your own attorney. Good evening."
She hangs up.
I stand frozen in the doorway.
They're really doing it. Taking everything. My wedding. My fiancé. My mother's money.
Eight minutes.
My phone rings again. This time it's a video call from Dad.
I almost don't answer. But I need to hear him say it. Need to hear my father admit he's betraying me.
I accept the call.
Dad's face fills the screen. He's in his home office. Patricia stands behind him, her hand on his shoulder. They look like a united front.
"Emma." Dad's voice is stern. The voice he used when I was a kid and got in trouble. "We need to discuss your behavior tonight."
"My behavior? MY BEHAVIOR?"
"You were incredibly rude to Patricia. She's trying to help Victoria in her final months, and you're being selfish about money."
"That money is mine. Mom left it to me."
"Your mother would want it used for Victoria's medical care." Patricia leans into the frame. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "She'd want you to help your dying sister."
"Victoria isn't dying. And she's not my sister."
Dad's face hardens. "I've seen the medical reports, Emma. Victoria is terminal. I know you're upset about Alexander, but taking it out on a dying girl is cruel."
"I saw her medical reports too! Last week! They said manageable condition!"
"Those were old reports." Patricia's voice is so smooth. So convincing. "Before the new tests came back. Emma, sweetheart, I know this is hard to accept, but Victoria really is dying. We're not lying to you."
They sound so sincere. So honest.
But I know better. I have to know better.
"I'm not giving you my trust fund."
"You don't have a choice." Dad's voice is final. "I'm the executor. The decision is made. The lawyer called you as a courtesy, but your permission isn't required."
"So you're just taking it? Stealing from your own daughter?"
"I'm not stealing. I'm reallocating family resources to where they're needed most. Victoria needs expensive treatments. You need to grow up and accept that sometimes life isn't fair."
Life isn't fair. He's stealing my inheritance and telling me life isn't fair.
"You're choosing her over me." My voice breaks. "Again. Like you always do."
"This isn't about choosing—"
"Yes, it is! It's always been about choosing! When Patricia came into our lives, you chose her. When Victoria needed things, you chose her. Every single time, Dad, you chose them over me. And now you're choosing to steal my mother's money."
"Emma, that's enough—"
"No, it's not enough! Mom would hate what you're doing! She'd be disgusted that you're using her money to fund Patricia's daughter!"
Patricia gasps dramatically. Dad's face turns red with anger.
"How dare you speak to me like this!" Dad shouts. "After everything I've done for you! After raising you, feeding you, giving you a home!"
"Mom gave me a home. Mom fed me. Mom raised me. You just stood there and let Patricia erase her memory!"
"Get out," Dad says coldly.
I blink. "What?"
"Get out of the family house. You're not welcome there anymore. I don't want to see your face until you apologize to Patricia and Victoria."
"I don't live in your house. I have my own apartment."
"An apartment I helped co-sign for." Dad's smile is cruel. "An apartment where Alexander is the primary lease holder. When he moves out to be with Victoria, where will you go?"
The realization hits me like ice water.
I can't afford this apartment without Alexander. I can barely afford it with him. And if he's not here, the landlord will evict me within weeks.
Five minutes.
"You planned this." My voice comes out as a whisper. "All of it. You wanted me to have nothing so I'd have to come crawling back and accept whatever scraps you offer."
Dad doesn't deny it. Neither does Patricia.
They just stare at me through the screen with cold, satisfied eyes.
"Good luck, Emma," Patricia says sweetly. "Life is hard when you're alone. Maybe this will teach you gratitude."
They end the call.
I stand in the doorway of my apartment—Alexander's apartment—holding my suitcase and my wedding dress, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to.
Two minutes.
A car horn honks outside. Three short beeps.
Damien's car.
I take one last look at the apartment. At the broken dishes. At the life I'm leaving behind.
Then I walk out the door and lock it behind me.
I don't look back.