Chapter 2: Face to Face With the Past

The next time I saw Natalie Porter was at my client’s wedding.

I hadn’t expected it. The room was all crystal chandeliers and navy tablecloths—the kind of place you only see in glossy bridal magazines. Servers weaved through the crowd with trays of mini crab cakes and champagne flutes, while the DJ fumbled with a playlist that skipped from Ed Sheeran to Lizzo. I found myself wandering, lost among the crowd, until I saw her.

She was the bride.

She wore an expensive, custom-tailored gown, her hair perfectly styled—elegant and proud. There was no trace of the struggling woman I’d once known.

She looked like she belonged on a Vogue cover. Even from across the room, you could see the confidence in her shoulders, the way her eyes scanned the room, measuring everyone and everything.

I had no intention of greeting her; after all, our breakup hadn’t been pleasant.

I hovered by the open bar, clutching a glass of white wine, hoping no one would notice me. My heart was pounding in my chest. Small talk felt impossible. I just wanted to get through the night.

I was the one who ended it.

Back then, she’d knelt on the living room floor, crying and begging me to stay. I hadn’t even looked back.

I can still remember her voice, hoarse from crying, and the way her shoulders shook. The memory sits heavy, even now. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of our chipped coffee mug—the one we both fought over for late-night tea—and feel the ache of what we’d lost.

In the end, she spat out harsh words: "Rachel Lee, once you walk out that door, don’t regret it. Even if you come crawling back later, I won’t give you a second glance."

She meant it, too—her eyes were cold, as if she’d built a wall I’d never climb again.

I left quickly.

Three years in that cramped apartment with her—I’d had enough.

Sometimes I think back on those nights, how we argued about money, about dreams, about nothing at all. All the little things that built up until they finally broke us apart. That thrifted blanket, the chipped mug, the broken blinds—every piece a relic of battles lost.

I never expected to see her again at her own wedding. It was more than a little awkward.

The universe really does have a twisted sense of humor. I kept my head down, wishing for invisibility.

I turned to leave, but then I heard the groomsmen teasing Natalie—

"Remember how Miss Porter insisted on playing the pure love game, only to get dumped in the end?"

"What a shame. Pretending to be jobless was your final test. If she could’ve stuck it out just a bit longer, she’d be the bride today."

"Bet she’d lose her mind if she knew she dumped the Porter Group’s golden ticket. What a move."

The words echoed in the high-ceilinged ballroom. I could feel their eyes flicking toward me, like I was some urban legend passed around over cocktails.

Amid her friends’ banter, Natalie sneered coldly.

She barely moved her lips, but her response cut through the noise. "Even if she regrets it, it’s too late now."

I knew full well that the "gold-digger" they were talking about was me.

My cheeks burned. Even after all this time, gossip travels fast, and reputations stick. I wanted to shrink into my wine glass, but all I could do was sit there and let the whispers stick to me like static.

So, they really thought I’d dumped her because she was broke.

If only they knew the truth—how little any of it mattered when it came to survival.

But the truth is, I’d known everything all along.

I’d known about her family, her real bank account, and how little she actually needed me. I remembered the first time I saw her last name on a donor plaque at the hospital, the letters gleaming like a punchline.