Clementine Azrael’s POV

Eight weeks before my wedding, I caught my fiancé cheating in a bridal salon.

Jarrod had a woman pinned against the fitting platform, kissing her deeply, his mouth moving from the corner of her lips down to her collarbone. His touch was so gentle it hurt to watch.

The cruelest part was that she was wearing my wedding dress. The custom gown I had ordered two weeks ago.

Half of the lace skirt had been pushed up. The veil hung crooked, sliding from her hair. That once pure, sacred dress had been ruined into something messy and shameful.

Through the mirror, the woman looked straight at me.

She didn’t panic. Instead, she smiled. “Jarrod,” she asked sweetly, “who looks better in this dress? Me, or your fiancée?”

“You, of course,” he answered without hesitation.

He had no idea I was standing outside the door.

In that moment, my breath stopped. My throat tightened, and my fingertips went cold and numb.

Seven years.

From the days when we squeezed into a tiny studio with no heat and split one sandwich between us, to founding Vanguard Industries and fighting our way to the top of the industry.

So this was what my seven years of love had become.

My heart, and even the wedding dress made just for me, had become a toy for another woman to please him.

My eyes burned. I bit down hard on my lower lip until the taste of blood spread across my tongue. Only then did I force back the sob rising in my chest.

A filthy man.

A filthy promise.

Neither was worth keeping.

I turned and walked away.

“Ms. Azrael? Your fitting room is ready,” the consultant at the front desk called after me.

I didn’t stop.

I walked out of the salon as fast as I could. The autumn wind hit my face, and only then did I realize my legs were weak. My back was soaked through with cold sweat, chilled to the bone.

Once I got into my car, the control I had held onto for so long finally cracked.

I bent over the steering wheel, my shoulders shaking beyond my control. Tears fell silently onto the leather, leaving dark wet marks.

Was I not good enough?

Was I too strong? Too focused on work?

Was that why he had changed?

My phone screen lit up, cutting through my breakdown.

It was a message from my sister, Catherine.

Catherine: Our family won't be attending your wedding to Jarrod. I love you, Clementine, but I won't watch you hand your life to a man who doesn't deserve it.

So everyone had seen it.

Everyone except me.

I was the only one trapped in seven years of obsession, lying to myself.

With shaking fingers, I typed back.

Me: I'm calling it off too.

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

After a long pause, Catherine finally replied.

Catherine: Come home to Aldenmoor within a month. If you do, I'll know you mean it. If you stay in that toxic mess, I can't keep watching you destroy yourself.

I stared at the screen as fresh tears blurred the words.

Me: Okay.

One month.

That was enough time to pull myself free.

The garage door of the villa was rising when Jarrod came home.

He wore a black shirt with two buttons casually undone, looking completely calm. As if nothing had happened.

“Going out?” he asked casually.

I didn’t look up.

I didn’t answer.

He bent down to kiss me.

His familiar cedar cologne mixed with a strong, sweet, unfamiliar perfume. Nausea rose in me at once. I turned my head away.

His kiss landed on empty air.

He reached for my waist, his voice soft. “Who upset my girl?”

“The wedding is off.”

I pulled away from him. My voice was so calm it surprised even me.

The tenderness on his face vanished in an instant.

“Clementine, the company is in the middle of a critical funding round. You’re a co-founder. You know how fragile investor confidence is. Do you understand how serious the consequences would be if we cancel the wedding now?”

My heart went colder.

Even now, all he cared about was the company. The money. The benefits.

His tone turned accusing.

“I’ve been on a business trip for days, barely sleeping, and you don’t even ask if I’m tired. You just open your mouth and try to destroy everything we spent seven years building?”

I got out of the car and walked toward the bathroom.

He followed quickly and hugged me from behind. This time, his grip was so tight I couldn’t break free. His voice softened on purpose.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’ve been under too much pressure lately. I neglected you. I’ll clear my schedule for the next few days and spend time with you, okay?”

“No need.”

The moment I said it, his phone rang.

It was a love song that had been popular on TikTok lately.

I remembered the early days of the company, when I had suggested we use matching couple ringtones. He had flatly refused, saying it was childish and would make him look unprofessional when dealing with clients.

So it wasn’t unprofessional.

I just wasn’t worthy.

He glanced down at the screen, then quickly ended the call. For a second, panic flashed across his face.

“Spam call.”

I ignored him.

His phone rang again.

He silenced it.

When it rang for the third time, he finally stepped outside and answered in a low voice.

His tone was gentle.

So gentle it felt like a voice I had never heard before.

A dozen seconds later, he hung up and grabbed his coat.

“There’s an emergency at the office. I’ll sleep there tonight. I’ll have the bridal salon arrange your fitting tomorrow morning. Just go straight there. Don’t wait for me.”

The door clicked shut.

I stood in front of the sink, raised my hand, and wiped the dampness from the corner of my eye.

Then I took out my phone and searched the contact name I had glimpsed.

181 Seconds.

The search result popped up.

Every word cut into me.

Most people lose interest after three minutes. But you—you're my extra second. My 181st.

It wasn’t a spam call.

It was their private love line.

In that moment, the last tiny piece of hope in my heart shattered completely.

It hurt.

It hurt so badly I could barely breathe.

But no more tears came.

People cry because they still expect something.

Once the heart is dead, all that remains is a cold, empty wasteland.

I opened a real estate app and listed the wedding home for sale.

Low price.

Cash buyers preferred.

Fast closing.

In less than half an hour, inquiries flooded my inbox.

I answered each one calmly.

At two in the morning, my best friend Veronica sent me a message.

Veronica: Watch this. Now.

Below it was an Instagram video link.

The account name was “J&Jforever_priv.”

The pinned caption was like a knife to the eyes.

My man is getting married in two months. Today, in the bridal salon, he had me beneath him while I was wearing his fiancée’s wedding dress. The gown meant for her was torn off me by his own hands. Nothing compares to that kind of pleasure.

I tapped the video.

In the first frame, I recognized the place.

Luminé Restaurant.

The place where Jarrod had gotten down on one knee and proposed to me.

He sat at the head of the table, and that woman was pressed close against him. Beside them were two of his so-called brothers.

Nigel raised his glass, grinning carelessly.

“Congratulations! Finally official!”

Official?

The camera shifted.

The woman lifted her long hair, and the diamond ring on her left ring finger glittered under the light.

I stared at that ring for a second.

It was the one I had chosen myself.

The one I had planned to wear on our wedding day.

“You’re the one Jarrod should marry. Clementine nitpicks everything all day, acting like the company would collapse without her.”

“Clementine will probably cry when she finds out.”

The four of them burst into laughter.

Jarrod swirled the wine in his glass, his voice cold and careless.

“Clementine is still useful, but without someone to guide her, she’ll never truly belong at the top.”

Useful.

Just last week, he had held me and said, “What would I do without you? Once we’re married, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

But now, his arm was around another woman.

He let his friends mock me, laugh at me, and trample all over my heart.

My stomach turned violently.

I took a deep breath and forced it down.

“She’ll have a hard time accepting the truth,” the woman said, leaning against his chest.

“She’ll be upset,” Jarrod said, covering her hand with his. “But she won’t leave.”

Connor raised a brow. “That sure?”

Jarrod chuckled.

“Clementine spent seven years trying to become Mrs. Getson. You think she’ll let go now?”

Another round of harsh laughter followed.

“When I take over as design director, will she really hand me all her designs?”

Jarrod tapped the tip of her nose.

“Leave it to me. Once I officially announce you as the department head, I’ll let her keep a title with no real power. That’s more than fair to her.”

“As long as you don’t sleep with her, I can wait.”

Jarrod laughed softly.

“My real wife has always been you.”

Heat surged up my throat. My stomach rolled with disgust.

The video ended.

My fingertips were ice-cold, but my hands were steady.

Screenshot.

Save.

Backup.

All in one smooth motion.

Almost without thinking, I tapped into the woman’s profile.

A new post had gone up two minutes ago.

Stop cursing at me. In one month, I’ll return him to his fiancée in one piece.

The picture was a hotel bed photo.

At the edge of the frame, a corner of white lace showed.

Today’s wedding dress.

I took another screenshot and saved it.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to shout until my throat tore open.

But I held it in.

He wasn’t worth it.

My phone lit up again.

Veronica was calling.

The moment I answered, her voice came through, tight with rage and heartbreak.

“You saw it? I screen-recorded everything. Backed it all up. Account source, original video files, every screenshot. I saved everything. Even if they delete it, it’s not going away.”

“Thank you, Veronica. I backed it up too,” I said.

“Baby, do you want me to come over? If you want to make a scene, I’ll make one with you. If you just want to sit in silence, I’ll sit with you.”

I let out a slow breath.

“You don’t need to come. I can handle it.”

“Okay. But don’t forget—you are not alone.”

The call ended.

I stared at my phone screen.

Then my thumb slid to Jarrod’s chat.

I typed.

Me: Meet me at the bridal salon at ten tomorrow morning. You said you’d come with me for the fitting.

I sent it.

Then I locked the screen.