Sophia's POV
The champagne glass slipped from my hand.
I watched it fall, everything moving in slow motion—the crystal tumbling through air, golden bubbles catching the light, two hundred faces turning toward the sound of shattering glass.
But I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't process what Marcus had just said.
I'm in love with Vanessa.
Five words. That's all it took to destroy my entire world.
Marcus stood at the center of the Metropolitan Club ballroom, microphone in hand, my stepsister Vanessa beside him. Her hand was in his. The hand that should've been holding mine.
We've been together for over a year, Marcus continued, his voice apologetic but steady. I know this is shocking, but Vanessa and I... we couldn't fight our feelings anymore.
A year. They'd been sleeping together for a year.
My brain stuttered over the math. A year ago, I'd introduced them at my birthday party. Vanessa had hugged me and called me the best sister ever. Marcus had kissed my cheek and told me he loved me.
All lies.
Marcus, what are you doing? I whispered, but the microphone caught it anyway.
Two hundred guests heard the tremor in my voice. Two hundred people watched me fall apart in real-time, wearing the white engagement gown I'd spent three months choosing.
Vanessa stepped forward, tears streaming down her perfect face. Sophie, I'm so sorry. We never meant to hurt you. But you have to understand—this is real love. You wouldn't want us to live a lie, would you?
Real love. Like what Marcus and I had was fake.
The engagement was arranged anyway, Marcus added, and my stomach dropped. My father and yours thought it would be good for business. I tried to make it work, Sophie. I really did. But I can't marry someone I don't love.
Arranged?
No. No, that couldn't be true. Marcus had proposed to me on a yacht at sunset. He'd gotten down on one knee and told me I was his future. He'd
I looked at my father. He stood near the bar with Marcus's father, Robert Wellington. Both men wore identical expressions of calculation.
Dad? My voice cracked. Tell them it's not true.
Please. Please defend me. Please tell everyone that Marcus loved me, that our relationship was real, that this was just some horrible mistake.
My father's face flushed red. But he didn't look at me. He looked at Robert Wellington.
Victor, Robert said smoothly, perhaps we should discuss the merger terms privately—
Yes, of course. My father nodded rapidly. I apologize for the confusion, Robert. The business arrangement can still proceed without the marriage. My company remains committed to—
Business arrangement? I repeated, my voice rising. Is that all I was? A business arrangement?
Finally, my father met my eyes. And in that moment, I saw the truth.
I'd never been his daughter. I'd been a bargaining chip.
Sophia, darling, don't make a scene. My stepmother Patricia glided forward, her smile sympathetic and poisonous. This is difficult for everyone, but you must understand—Vanessa and Marcus are truly in love. You wouldn't want to stand in the way of real happiness, would you?
Real happiness. As if mine didn't matter.
I looked around the ballroom. Two hundred faces stared back—some shocked, some pitying, some already whispering behind their hands.
Poor Sophia Chen.I always thought Marcus was too good for her.The stepsister is prettier anyway.
Vanessa touched my arm, her voice soft. I hope we can still be sisters. This doesn't have to change our relationship.
Something inside me snapped.
Get your hand off me, I hissed.
She jerked back, eyes wide with fake hurt.
The room went silent. Everyone waited to see what I'd do. Would I cry? Would I beg? Would I play the role of jilted fiancée with dignity?
I wanted to scream. I wanted to rip Vanessa's hair out. I wanted to throw my father's hypocrisy in his face and demand Marcus explain how he'd whispered I love you while sleeping with my sister.
But I couldn't. Not here. Not in front of Wall Street's elite, watching me like I was tonight's entertainment.
So I did the only thing I could.
I ran.
My heels clicked against marble as I pushed through the crowd. Someone grabbed my arm—I didn't see who—but I yanked free. The ballroom doors seemed miles away.
Behind me, Patricia's voice rang out. Someone should check on her. The poor dear is so emotional.
Emotional. Like my pain was unreasonable.
I burst through the doors and kept running. Down the hallway. Past shocked staff members. Through the lobby where curious guests turned to stare.
Outside, Manhattan's November air hit me like a slap. Cold and sharp and real.
I ran down Fifth Avenue in my white gown, mascara streaming, lungs burning. People stared. A woman asked if I was okay. I ignored her.
Two blocks. Three. My feet screamed in these stupid heels but I couldn't stop. If I stopped, I'd have to think. I'd have to feel.
Finally, my legs gave out. I collapsed against a building, gasping.
Five minutes ago, I'd been Sophia Chen—daughter, fiancée, perfect corporate princess with her whole life planned.
Now I was nothing. No job (Marcus's father controlled the board at my company). No fiancé. No family who actually cared.
My phone buzzed. A text from Maya, my best friend: WHERE ARE YOU? WHAT HAPPENED?
I started to type a response but another notification popped up. Then another. And another.
Social media was exploding.
Someone had livestreamed the whole thing. #SophiaChen was trending. The comments were brutal.
She really thought she could keep a man like Marcus Wellington.Gold digger got what she deserved.The stepsister is way hotter anyway.
My hands shook as I scrolled through post after post, each one destroying me a little more.
Then I saw it. A photo of Vanessa and Marcus kissing at the engagement party. Posted six minutes ago.
The caption: When you finally get to kiss the love of your life in public. #TrueLove #NoMoreSecrets
They'd planned this. The public humiliation. The social media posts. All of it.
I wanted to disappear. To cease existing. To
Rough night?
I looked up.
A man stood three feet away, expensive suit, dark hair, eyes like steel. He held out a clean handkerchief.
For some insane reason, I laughed. You could say that.
He studied me for a long moment—really looked, not with pity but with understanding.
There's a bar two blocks down, he said quietly. Best whiskey in Manhattan. And no one there gives a damn about Wall Street gossip.
I should say no. I should call Maya. I should go home and cry and process my feelings like a rational adult.
Instead, I took the handkerchief.
Lead the way.