Chapter 1: The Birthday Betrayal

At my eighteenth birthday party, my fiancé arrived late—snow swirling behind him as he strode in, leading a young woman by the hand. The ballroom seemed to freeze: the hush was absolute, the only sound the sharp crack of cold air as the doors slammed shut. My stomach dropped, a sick twist that made my knees weak as every head turned to stare.

He looked straight at me and said he wanted to break off our engagement.

And then, impossibly, a stream of floating comments flickered before my eyes—like a Twitter meltdown during election night, except only I could see them.

[LMAO, if she even blinks at him, this dude would drop the side chick in a heartbeat.]

[He’s only acting tough—watch him crumble if she pushes back!]

[Girl, don’t you dare say yes. Make him sweat!]

I glanced at Ethan Harrison. He stood tall, his arm shielding the girl at his side, jaw clenched in that stubborn way I remembered from his battles with his dad over Yale versus Harvard. But behind that cold front, his eyes flickered with something like hope—the same look he’d get as a kid, waiting for me to share my Halloween candy.

My chest felt hollow, like I’d stepped off the edge of a rooftop. But my lips moved before I could second-guess myself. I nodded. “Yes.”

Then, without looking back, I turned and immediately announced my engagement to the youngest son of the Senator’s family.

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Ethan Harrison, heir to the Harrison fortune, had just turned my life—and the whole party—upside down. Everyone knew about his latest obsession with a waitress from the country club, the kind of scandal that would light up Page Six and set the alumni Facebook group on fire. He hid her like she was a witness in federal protection, sneaking around as if love was a crime.

The Harrisons and Mitchells—our families had been plotting this merger since we wore matching uniforms at private school. Even Harrison Senior had threatened to cut Ethan off—thirty million a year, gone. But Ethan wouldn’t say a word about that girl. He’d risked it all for her.

All around, guests whispered, their Champagne flutes glinting under the chandeliers. Servers in black vests circulated with mini crab cakes and flutes of Veuve Clicquot. My birthday cake—a three-tiered masterpiece from Ladurée, my name piped in gold script—sat untouched.

They all wanted to know: Was my engagement to Ethan really over? And what did that mean for the upcoming Harrison-Mitchell merger?

I kept my head high, following my mother as we thanked family friends and business partners—Judge Whitman and his wife, the Vanderbilt cousins from Boston, even Mrs. Chen who’d flown in from San Francisco.

That’s when Ethan burst in, snowflakes still clinging to his coat. The nor’easter outside had shut down LaGuardia and sent everyone panic-buying at Whole Foods. The main doors banged open, a gust of freezing air making the candles on my cake flicker and throwing my carefully planned night into chaos.

Ethan’s coat—black, immaculate, not a drop of snow melting on the Italian wool—made him look even taller and more imposing as he strode across the marble floor. His shoes echoed with each step, drawing every eye in the room.

He said he wanted to break off the engagement. Right there. In front of two hundred guests and the string quartet, who’d just started Pachelbel’s Canon.

The scrolling comments came back, bright and relentless:

[He’s only saying this to make her beg.]

[Bet he spent three hours picking out that coat. Dude wants her to fall for him again.]

[Don’t be sad, girl. He’s just scared he’ll be whipped after marriage!]

[That Emma chick? Total decoy. He’s still pure for you!]

The feed rolled past, row after row—like election night Twitter, only crazier. They all insisted Ethan loved me, that he was playing games to keep control. As if I was a trophy, not a person.

I blinked, heart racing, wondering if someone had slipped something into the punch or if my nerves had finally snapped.

The ballroom was dead silent. You could hear the snow tapping the windows, the faint hum of the heat. No one moved.

Then the woman—Emma—stepped out from behind Ethan. Her heels clicked, slicing through the tension. “Ethan and I are in love. I hope you’ll let us be together, Claire.” Her voice carried a soft Southern twang, maybe Georgia or the Carolinas.

She wore a pale blue cocktail dress and a pearl hairpin—simple, but it screamed, I don’t need your trust fund. She stood tall, chin high, like she’d clawed her way into this world and dared anyone to challenge her. Mrs. Blackwood actually clutched her pearls.

The comments kept rolling, relentless:

[What’s this side piece doing? She’s got nerve!]

[He WANTS her to be jealous! His poker face is a joke.]

[Just say you don’t like Emma, and he’ll drop her in a second.]

[Power couple vibes: icy heir and untouchable heiress. I’m watching.]

My hands curled in my dress pockets, nails digging into my palms. I locked eyes with Ethan. As if afraid I’d turn on Emma, he pulled her behind him, hand tightening around her wrist, but his gaze flickered to me—half challenge, half plea. The same gesture he’d used when we were twelve, shielding me from bullies at summer camp.

He turned to me, voice cool as a boardroom: “Miss Mitchell, this is the engagement ring our families exchanged. The one from my family—please return it.”

The comments reappeared, more frantic than ever:

[Girl, don’t do it! He’s desperate.]

[He’s acting cold but he’s freaking out inside.]

[LMAO, if she even blinks at him, this dude would drop the side chick in a heartbeat.]

Ethan’s face was a mask, but his eyes pleaded with me, like a poker player holding a royal flush and praying for more.

I glanced at his coat—Burberry Heritage, limited edition. I’d picked it out for him last Christmas after hours at the Fifth Avenue store, special ordering his size. Now he wore it to shield another woman, protect her from the cold and our world’s judgment. The coat was tainted. So was he.

I stopped my furious parents with a gentle hand on my mother’s trembling arm, then reached for the ring—a five-carat Tiffany solitaire, his grandmother’s. My smile was razor-thin. “Good.”

Ethan, so sure of himself, froze. His face went slack, then twisted—anger, disbelief, and something like fear flickering in quick succession.

“What did you say?”

I turned to the room, my voice ringing clear as church bells on a Sunday in Connecticut. “Today, in front of all our guests, since Mr. Harrison has found new love, I wouldn’t dream of standing in the way. I grant your wish.”

“Our families have been friends for generations. But Mr. Harrison chose to do this at my birthday, in front of everyone. It seems you look down on the Mitchells—and our reputation. In that case, our families won’t need to associate in the future. I’m sure the country club will understand when we vote differently next time.”

“Sophie! Please bring the Harrison family’s engagement ring.”

“Yes, Miss Mitchell!”

Sophie, my assistant—sharp, loyal, already red-faced with fury—rushed off in her Jimmy Choos, desperate not to miss her cue.

Ethan stepped forward, lips parting, maybe to beg, maybe to remember the summers and galas we’d shared. But Sophie was back in a flash, Cartier box in hand, breathless.

“Miss, here’s the ring and all the jewelry Mr. Harrison ever gave you. I catalogued it all, just like you asked last week.”

I kept my cotillion-perfect smile as I opened the box. On top: a white gold bracelet spelling “Forever” in tiny diamonds. Ethan had blushed giving it to me at my Sweet Sixteen, swearing it was one of a kind. But tonight, Emma wore the same bracelet. So much for exclusive love.

Ethan’s affection was as mass-produced as his apologies. And I was done pretending otherwise.