Three years. That’s how long you gave him. Three years of your youth, your loyalty, your soul. All for him to trade it for your best friend with the grace of a man ordering dessert.

You walked in on them. She wore your shirt. He looked guilty—but not guilty enough. You didn’t scream. Didn’t beg. You packed your life into boxes, left your key on the counter, and disappeared across state lines.

You started over in a new city where no one knew your name, in a crumbling apartment with cracked ceilings and radiators that never worked. You worked, you healed. Sort of. You ghosted them both.

So when the wedding invitation arrived—embossed, gold-edged, and soaked in delusion—you nearly laughed yourself into an aneurysm. You are cordially invited to the union of two people who destroyed you. They had the audacity.

In your head, you imagined arriving like a storm: flawless in a custom gown, stepping out of a Rolls-Royce with a man who looked like sin in Armani. They’d see you and choke on regret.

Reality?

Your eyeliner smudged halfway through the Uber ride. Your hair wouldn’t hold a curl. And your “hot date” texted an hour before the ceremony: Can’t make it. Sorry. Of course.

So you arrived solo. Alone. Unapologetically underdressed and over-caffeinated, ready to make peace with your poor decisions and drink them into submission.

The ceremony was beautiful. Sickeningly so. She wore white like she hadn’t been the reason you stopped believing in friendship. He smiled like he hadn’t gutted you.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t flinch. You just sat at the back table—and drank glass after glass of wine like it owed you something.

And then—

A shadow moved across your table.

You didn’t look up right away. You were mid-sip, mid-thought, mid-hate spiral. But the silence dragged long enough to pull your gaze upward.

Tall. Impeccably dressed in a midnight suit. Silver at his temples, but not in a way that made him look old—just dangerous. Sharp jaw, colder eyes, and a presence that made the air around him quieter.

You knew that face. You’d only seen it once, years ago, at one awkward dinner where he showed up late, said nothing, and left early.

Your ex’s father.

CEO. Billionaire. Real estate mogul. The kind of man people wrote headlines about. The kind who turned silence into strategy, who spoke when it mattered and never for free.

You froze.

“I thought I recognized you,” he said, voice smooth, deep, and entirely unfazed. “Didn’t think you’d show.”