Chapter 4: The Final Showdown

That night.

I called Rachel. She picked up almost instantly.

"What is it?" Her tone was lazy.

She sounded like she’d just woken from a nap, or maybe she just didn’t care. I could picture her stretched across her penthouse couch, probably scrolling through her mentions on Twitter.

"Stop buying trending slots." I spoke softly.

She paused, her tone light. "Why so glum? Are you really that upset?"

"What do you actually want?" I couldn’t keep the crack from my voice.

She was silent.

My voice was hoarse. "Watching me get doxxed, called a homewrecker, the Reed Group’s stock price dropping—does that make you happy? Are you satisfied?"

As I spoke, I couldn’t help but tremble all over.

How could someone be so unreasonable?

After a while, Rachel spoke slowly, "Don’t cry, darling. Want to see me? I can come over now."

The word hit me like ice water. I flinched, even though she couldn’t see it.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

Standing on the balcony, the night wind cooled the tears on my face.

I was a complete joke.

In the end, only two dry, brittle words escaped: "No."

Rachel repeated, her tone unreadable: "No?"

"What do you mean, Marcus?" Her voice chilled.

"I don’t want to see you." Using the last of my strength, I hung up.

I lay on the bed in a daze, unable to sleep for a long time.

The trending topic was still at the top.

My relatives in the family Facebook Messenger group all tagged me, every message tinged with blame.

Until a cousin sent: [Bro, you let some TikTok pretty boy steal your girl? That’s rough, man.]

Once someone started, the rest piled on.

A female cousin sent a facepalm emoji: [So embarrassing, losing to a pretty boy. If I were you, Marcus, I wouldn’t dare show my face.]

[All of Rachel’s money goes to that influencer. Has she ever spent anything on you, cousin?]

[Why not just break off the engagement? It’s obvious Rachel doesn’t like Marcus.]

After that last message, the group chat fell silent.

I gave a bitter smile.

If only I could just swap fiancées.

But the Reed Group is still run by my father, and I’m his only son. He wouldn’t pass up the chance to curry favor with the Sullivan family.

I set the group to Do Not Disturb and checked my Instagram feed.

The first post was a group photo from a wealthy socialite.

At the center—

Rachel and Tyler.

Rachel snuggled sweetly in Tyler’s arms, smiling radiantly.

Her circle of girlfriends flanked them, raising their glasses in celebration.

Like what?

Right—like an official relationship announcement.

I gave it a like and turned off my phone.

The comments rushed in like a tidal wave:

[Marcus, don’t be sad. The heiress is just pretending. We all know she loves you most.]

[Yeah, after her friend posted that, she checked every minute to see if you’d liked it.]

[She really wants to see you. You refused her last night, she was practically heartbroken.]

[Marcus, call her and say you’re jealous. She’ll come running to you, haha.]

I closed my eyes numbly, forcing the comments from my mind.

Who knows how much time passed before I got up, body cold, and sent a message to my lawyer: [Send me the breakup agreement. I’ll find a chance to give it to Rachel.]

I needed a day to transfer assets quietly, without anyone interfering.

After the gala, I’d take an early flight out of the country.

By then, two copies of the breakup agreement would be delivered—one to my father, one to Rachel.

If I stayed, even if I refused to marry Rachel, my life wouldn’t be peaceful. Sooner or later, my father would force me to marry some other troublesome woman.

I stared at the ceiling fan spinning above me, wondering if I’d ever feel at home in this house again, or if anywhere would ever feel like home.

---

Everything went smoothly.

...

For the gala, I chose my suit with care.

I spent an extra twenty minutes making sure every detail was right—cufflinks, tie bar, even the cologne my mother once gave me. Walking into the banquet hall, I smiled as friends came to greet me. One nudged me, "No date tonight? I could lend you my sister."

He elbowed me with a wink, as if this were all just another bachelor’s game, not a public unravelling. I thought about it. "Forget it. Being alone isn’t embarrassing."

"True. Having women around just gets in the way of us chatting." He laughed.

Suddenly, a commotion broke out nearby.

We looked over.

—Rachel, dressed in a form-fitting red mermaid gown that showed off her curves and a dazzling, sequined neckline, walked in with Tyler on her arm. Her gaze was shyly lowered, lips red and teeth white.

Her entrance was classic Sullivan flair—sweeping, calculated, instantly the room’s focus. They instantly became the center of attention.

Ah…

So when Rachel said she’d accompany Tyler, she meant to this gala.

My eyes fell on Tyler’s suit.

It was identical to mine—a silver suit.

When I ordered it, I was told there was only one in the country.

Did Tyler have his shipped in overnight?

Rachel was clearly trying to make me look bad.

Sure enough, as soon as Tyler spotted me, his face changed.

He turned to Rachel and said something, then strode over, glaring at me. "Yo, dude, really? You had to jack my look? You couldn’t even pull it off."

People started to gather, drawn by the drama.

My friend looked stunned. "Don’t talk nonsense…"

Tyler sneered, "You’re just jealous of how well Rachel treats me. Your tricks are pathetic, and you don’t even look as good in it as I do."

My friend muttered, "He looks better than you."

Tyler, fuming, stomped back to Rachel. "Rachel, your fiancé is trash. How could he ever deserve you?"

Rachel’s beautiful eyes lingered on me for a long moment. Then she smiled faintly.

The comments erupted:

[Ahhhh, the heiress smiled! She still thinks Marcus looks best in that suit.]

[LOL, she’s so smitten.]

[See? The eyes never lie. The heiress and Marcus, 99% chance—betting a bag of Cheetos!]

[Wait… the heiress is trying to provoke Marcus into giving in, and then…]

While I was still puzzling over that last comment, the microphone came on.

Everyone turned to look.

The Sullivan Group’s senior secretary took the mic and a card. "Thank you all for attending. We have an important announcement—by decision of Miss Sullivan and the board, 2% of Sullivan Group’s shares will be granted, free of charge, to Mr. Tyler."

The ballroom smelled like expensive perfume and nervous ambition. Crystal glasses clinked like wind chimes in a storm. The room erupted in shock.

There was an audible gasp—someone dropped a champagne flute nearby. I looked up, stunned.

Rachel holds some shares, but I never knew how many. Another 2%—for her future husband. Even just 2% of Sullivan Group means a sizable annual profit.

She gave it to Tyler.

And announced it here, now.

The comments were going wild:

[Here it is—the heiress’s big move! Poor Marcus, everyone’s mocking him. He’ll have to go beg her now.]

[What’s Marcus waiting for? The heiress loves him so much. Just slap Tyler, hug the heiress, and say you love her. Then the shares are still yours!]

My stomach dropped. Two percent. Just like that. I’d spent years trying to earn her trust—he got it in one night.

Under all those mocking, gloating stares, I walked step by step toward Rachel.

My shoes clicked on the polished floor, echoing through the hush. Her gaze followed me the entire way.

I stopped in front of her.

She lowered her eyes, the corners of her lips curving in a faint smile.

I smiled too, each word scraping from my throat:

"The breakup agreement is already on its way. You’ll have it soon. Whether or not to continue working with the Reed Group—that’s your decision now."

Rachel’s eyes glistened, just for a second. Then the crowd erupted, and the gap between us felt wider than Lake Michigan.

For a moment, everything else fell away—the music, the glittering lights, the breathless crowd. It was just us, and the cost of all those years pretending we belonged together.