"Distant?" I echoed, my voice flat. I looked him dead in the eye. "Christian, when have you ever been anything but distant with me, in the ways that actually matter?" The question hung in the air, a silent accusation.

He blinked, his carefully constructed mask of concern faltering for a split second. "Annie, darling, what are you talking about? I love you. You know I do. We're getting married next week!" He reached for my hand again, his touch making my skin crawl. "Don't say such things. You're just sick."

A wave of nausea washed over me, not from illness, but from his sheer audacity. My stomach churned with disgust. "Don't touch me," I said, pulling my hand away. "And please, Christian, let's not pretend anymore. You have your... preferences, shall we say. And I'm clearly not meeting them tonight. Or any night, it seems."

He paused, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, quickly masked by practiced tenderness. "Annie, that's unfair. You know my... particularities. We've talked about this. But right now, you're not feeling well. You need to rest, not... argue." He smoothed my hair back from my forehead, his touch sending shivers of revulsion down my spine. "Listen, there's a big investor dinner tonight. Demonte and his friends are coming. We need to close this deal quickly for the new project. It' s critical."

My heart sank. Another one. Another night of being the smiling, compliant hostess, the beautiful bait. I thought of the spiked protein shakes, the lecherous gazes, the feeling of my dignity slowly eroding with each forced smile.

He saw the hesitation in my eyes, the flicker of pain. "I know it's a lot to ask, sweetheart," he said, his voice dropping to a sympathetic tone. "But this project... it's big. It involves the land where your family's old cemetery is. I'm trying to protect it, Annie. For you. For your memories."

My breath hitched. My family's cemetery. My parents, gone too soon, resting in that quiet, peaceful place. My soft spot. He knew exactly how to twist the knife. A tiny, foolish part of me, the part that still clung to the illusion of his love, wondered if he truly cared, if this was his way of showing it.

"But you're not well," he continued, a sigh escaping him. "Perhaps I can handle it myself. It'll be tough, but I'll manage." His voice was laced with a martyr-like resignation, designed to make me feel guilty.

The thought of him facing those sharks alone, of the project failing, of my parents' resting place being disturbed, spurred me to action. Foolish, I know. But some old habits die hard. "No," I said, pushing myself up. "I'll go."

He looked genuinely surprised for a moment, then a triumphant glint flashed in his eyes. "Are you sure, Annie? You really don't have to."

"I'm sure," I said, my voice hollow. I swung my legs out of bed. "Just give me twenty minutes."

As I walked into the living room, heading towards my study to choose an outfit, I saw Kimberli. She was dressed in a shimmering silver cocktail dress, her hair perfectly coiffed, her makeup impeccably applied. She looked like she was ready for a red carpet event.

"Oh, Annie!" Christian exclaimed, a forced cheerfulness in his voice. "Kimberli's coming with us tonight! She's so eager to learn about the business. My little protégé."

Kimberli smiled, a sly, knowing glint in her eyes. "Yes, Annie. Christian says I can help you out. You know, lighten your load. I'm a fast learner. You won't have to carry so much weight anymore." Her words were a veiled threat, a declaration of intent.

I ignored her, my gaze fixed on Christian. "Of course," I said, my voice devoid of warmth. "Anything to help the business." I walked past them, my head held high, the metallic taste of betrayal bitter on my tongue. I would get through this. I had to.

We arrived at the exclusive private club, a place I had frequented countless times, always with Christian by my side. As we stepped out of the car, Christian quickly moved to guide Kimberli, but then, with a subtle shift, he pivoted.

"Kimberli, darling, you can sit with Demonte and the others tonight," he said, his voice firm but seemingly gentle. "This seat, right here," he gestured to the head of the long dining table, "is reserved for Annie. She's the star of the show. Always has been." He placed a hand on my back, pushing me gently towards the designated chair.

I felt a cold shiver. He was setting me up. Again.

Demonte and a few other investors were already seated, their eyes widening in surprise as I approached. "Annie Byers!" one of them exclaimed, a lecherous smile spreading across his face. "Christian, you sly dog! You said she wasn't feeling well. You kept her all for yourself, didn't you?" He winked.

Christian chuckled, a smug look on his face. "Couldn't keep her away. She insisted on being here. Said she wanted to make sure our deal goes through. My dedicated fiancée." His hand lingered on my back, a possessive gesture that felt like a brand.

"Well, then, to Annie!" another investor slurred, raising his glass. "For her dedication!"

"And her beauty!" a third added, his eyes raking over me.

Christian leaned in, his voice a low whisper in my ear. "They're particularly keen tonight, Annie. The deal. It's hanging by a thread. You know what to do." He pulled away, a tight smile on his face, and gestured to a tray of shots. "Gentlemen, let's get this party started!"

My heart hammered against my ribs. He was sacrificing me. Again. For his ambition, for his greed. The bitter taste of resentment filled my mouth. I remembered his promises, whispered sweet nothings about our future, about how he would protect me, cherish me. All lies. All a performance.

He wanted me to entertain them. To drink with them. To let them touch me, ogle me, use me. And I, the fool, had walked right back into his trap. He was a master puppeteer, and I, his obedient doll. He had learned how to use me even better now.

I swallowed the self-loathing, pushing it deep down. This was it. No more tears. No more begging silently for his affection. If he wanted a performance, he was going to get one. But this time, it would be my show.

I grabbed a shot glass from the tray Christian presented, then another, and another. "Gentlemen," I announced, my voice clear and strong despite the tremor in my hands. "Let's not waste time with individual toasts. Bottoms up!" I tossed back the first shot, the burning liquid searing a path down my throat. Then the second. Then the third.

My reputation as a "fixer" wasn't just about my connections or my wit. It was about my ability to read a room, to charm, to disarm. And sometimes, it was about my ability to out-drink men twice my size, all while maintaining a facade of elegant control. These powerful men, these titans of industry, often underestimated women. They saw a pretty face, a compliant smile, and assumed weakness. They never expected a woman to meet their gaze, shot for shot, and demand their respect. They loved a woman with "spunk," a challenge, a wild card they thought they could tame. It was a dangerous dance I knew all too well.

"Whoa, Annie!" Demonte chuckled, impressed. "Now that's what I call dedication!"

The lead investor, a notoriously difficult man named Mr. Harrington, raised an eyebrow, a glint of amusement in his jaded eyes. "Well, well. It seems Christian has himself a firecracker. Alright, Byers. One more round. If you can keep up, the deal is yours."

My eyes met his, a silent challenge passing between us. "Deal," I said, my voice firm.

Shot after shot, the world began to blur. The heat bloomed in my chest, dulling the sharper pains of betrayal. I felt a strange detachment, watching myself from afar, a puppet with a new master. My head swam, my vision wobbling, but I kept going. I had to. For my parents. For the last vestige of my pride.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I stumbled, my hand reaching out to steady myself against the table. Christian was there instantly, his arm around my waist, his face a mask of concern. "Annie, darling, are you alright? You've had enough. Let me take you home."

His touch, once craved, now felt like a violation. I leaned against him, feigning helplessness, my head lolling slightly. "One more question, Christian," I slurred, my voice thick with alcohol. "If I can't... hold my liquor... would you send Kimberli to finish the job?" My eyes, though blurry, fixed on him, a silent challenge.

He stiffened, his jaw tightening. He looked down at me, a strange mix of emotions in his eyes-contempt, but also a flicker of something almost... protective? "Kimberli?" he scoffed, his voice laced with disdain. "That little amateur? She couldn't handle these old wolves. No, Annie. You're irreplaceable tonight. No one could ever replace you."

A bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped my lips. Irreplaceable. Used, discarded, but irreplaceable. The irony was a cruel twist of the knife. I looked up at him, my eyes filled with a pain he couldn't possibly comprehend, a pain I wouldn't let him see.

He caught my gaze, and for a fleeting moment, a shadow passed over his face, as if he almost understood. But then it was gone, replaced by his usual charming smile.

I pushed myself upright, a surprising surge of strength coursing through me. "Fine," I slurred, grabbing the last full bottle of vodka. "Let's finish this." I chugged it down, the burning liquid igniting a fire in my throat, in my stomach, in my soul.

Mr. Harrington slammed his hand on the table, a booming laugh echoing through the room. "The deal is done! Christian, you're a lucky man! To Annie, the best damn fixer in L.A.!"

A hollow victory. I managed a weak smile, my head spinning. "Thank you, gentlemen," I mumbled. "Always a pleasure."

"And the land, Annie?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, a sudden sobriety piercing through the alcohol haze. "The project... my parents' cemetery. Is it safe?"

Mr. Harrington looked confused. "Cemetery? What cemetery, dear? We're talking about the new resort development in Malibu. Prime beachfront property."

My blood ran cold. Malibu. Not my family's land. He had lied. Again. The bottle slipped from my trembling fingers, crashing to the polished floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.

Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the alcohol. I looked around, my gaze desperate. Christian. Kimberli. They were gone. The table was empty, save for the drunken investors. They had disappeared. Abandoned me.

"Excuse me," I mumbled, pushing back from the table, my legs like jelly. I stumbled towards the restroom, the world blurring around me. I needed air. I needed to escape.

As I reached the opulent bathroom, I heard voices from one of the private stalls. Kimberli's sweet, simpering voice, then Christian's low chuckle.

"Christian, darling, you should have let me handle them," Kimberli whined. "I could have closed the deal. Why did you force Annie to drink so much? She looks dreadful."

"Please, Kimberli," Christian scoffed. "You? You're still a novice. The old men like Annie's 'veteran' charm. Besides, it's good for her. Keeps her in line. And now that the deal is done, she's no longer needed."

"So, you're really going to ditch her at the wedding?" Kimberli asked, a greedy anticipation in her voice.

"Of course," Christian purred. "I told you, she was just a means to an end. Now it's our time, my love. Our future. No more Annie."

My gut twisted, a wave of pure revulsion washing over me. No more Annie. He said it with such casual cruelty. He was worse than I thought. A monster cloaked in charm.

I couldn't hear any more. I stumbled out of the restroom, the opulent surroundings mocking my shattered dignity. The rain had started, a cold, relentless drizzle that matched the storm raging inside me. I pushed through the heavy doors of the club, the cool night air a welcome slap to my face. I walked, aimlessly, the rain soaking my thin dress, mingling with the tears that finally escaped.

All those years. All that love. All that pain. Was it all just a charade? A performance for his twisted ambition? I had given him everything, and he had repaid me with lies, manipulation, and the cold, hard promise of public humiliation.

My head throbbed, my body ached, and my heart felt like a gaping, bleeding wound. The alcohol, the exhaustion, the devastating betrayal – it was all too much. I swayed, my vision blurring, the world spinning into a dizzying vortex. My legs gave out. I crumpled to the wet pavement, the cold rain washing over me, the darkness claiming me. I just wanted it to end.

The city lights blurred, streaking into desperate lines around my fading consciousness. No one saw me. No one cared. Just another broken woman on a rainy L.A. night.

Then, a sudden warmth. A gentle lift. Strong arms enveloped me, holding me close. A soft cloth brushed against my face, wiping away the rain and tears. My eyelids fluttered open, barely. I saw a dark silhouette, a man, his face obscured by the dim light and the overwhelming fog in my brain. He looked... familiar.

He whispered something, but the words were lost in the roar of blood in my ears. He took off his expensive jacket, a dark, plush material, and carefully draped it over my shivering body. His eyes, pools of dark intensity, stared down at me, a strange possessiveness in their depths.

"Take her to the hospital," I heard him say, his voice a low, commanding tone. "And make sure no one knows who brought her."

"Sir, are you sure?" a new voice, a driver's, asked, clearly surprised. "It's just... you never..."

The man ignored him, his gaze still fixed on me. And then, the darkness swallowed me whole.

I woke to the insistent beeping of a machine and the sterile scent of antiseptic. The room was bathed in a soft, artificial glow. My head throbbed, my mouth felt like sandpaper, and my body ached.

"Annie? Thank God, you're awake!"

Christian's voice. He was sitting beside my bed, his face etched with what looked like genuine concern. He took my hand, his grip tight. "You scared me half to death, sweetheart. I've been here all night."

My memories, hazy and fragmented, slowly pieced themselves together: the club, the confrontation, the rain, the powerful arms, the whispered words... and Christian's betrayal. The raw agony of it all. How dare he pretend to care?

"Christian," I rasped, my voice hoarse. I pulled my hand from his. "What are you doing here?"

He looked hurt. "Annie, I was worried about you! You collapsed in the street. Thankfully, someone found you and called an ambulance." He shook his head. "The doctors said it was exhaustion and acute alcohol intoxication. What were you thinking, drinking like that?" He chastised me gently, like a concerned husband.

I just stared at him, my mind racing. Someone found me. Not him. He had abandoned me. "I just want to be left alone," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"Nonsense," he declared, already pouring a bowl of clear broth for me. "You need nourishment. Here, let me help you." He scooped up a spoonful, holding it to my lips.

I watched him, a morbid curiosity taking hold. Why was he still playing this game? Did he truly believe I hadn't figured him out? His eyes, though seemingly full of worry, held a subtle flicker of something I couldn't quite place – anxiety? Impatience?

He caught my gaze, and for a fleeting moment, a shadow crossed his face, a hint of unease. He quickly recovered, his smile firmly back in place. "Come on, Annie. You need your strength."

"No," I said, gently pushing his hand away. "I can feed myself." My voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.

"Alright, alright," he conceded, setting the bowl down. "I'll go run you a bath. You always loved a warm bath after a long day, didn't you? With your favorite lavender salts." He stood, a picture of attentiveness.

I watched him walk away, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my chest. He knew my habits, my preferences, my every routine. Not because he loved me, but because he was a meticulous puppet master. He knew how to pull every string, how to play every role. His acting was truly Oscar-worthy.

I slowly picked up the spoon, forcing down the bland broth. Just then, his phone, lying on the bedside table, lit up. A familiar notification sound. My eyes, without conscious command, flickered to the screen.

It was Kimberli. A barrage of texts.

"Christian, where are you? I've been waiting for you all night! Are you back with her?"

"Did you really go to the hospital? Why? She's fine, isn't she?"

"Come back, Christian! I've already changed into the outfit you love. Don't leave me alone."

Then, a text that made my blood run cold, chilling me to the bone.

"Tell her to move out. I can't stand being in the same house with that disgusting woman. Make her leave, Christian. She's unsuitable."

My breath hitched. Disgusting woman. Unsuitable. The words, vicious and cruel, sliced through me. I squeezed my eyes shut, a fresh wave of despair washing over me. So this was it. This was their true face.

I thought of the past five years. My unwavering loyalty. My endless support. My belief in him. I had given up so much for him. I had even considered leaving my successful career, my "fixer" business, to focus solely on his startup, on our future. He had always discouraged it, saying my connections were too valuable. Now I knew why. He never wanted me to be anything more than his resource, his pawn.

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. He truly was a master of manipulation. And I, the supposed "fixer," had been expertly broken.

The bathroom door opened, and Christian re-emerged, a towel slung over his shoulder, a beatific smile on his face. He saw my ashen face, my trembling hands, the phone screen still glowing with Kimberli's hateful words. His smile faltered.

"Annie? Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost." He reached out, his hand touching my forehead. "You're freezing! I'll call the doctor."

"No!" I said, my voice sharp, pulling away. "Don't. I'm fine. Just... tired." I averted my gaze, unwilling to meet his eyes. I couldn't bear another one of his lies.

I needed to get out. I needed a plan. But not yet. I needed to see this through, to understand the full scope of his depravity. I needed to be strong, just a few more days. Until the wedding.

"Alright, if you insist," he said, his voice laced with forced concern. "But you need to get some rest. And listen, about the wedding... the photographer needs to take some pre-wedding shots. And Kimberli, she's so good with aesthetics, I thought maybe she could pick out your dress? You know, as a way to bond, help relieve your stress."

My head snapped up. Pick out my dress? The audacity. "And what next, Christian?" I asked, my voice dangerously low. "Will she be the one to be your companion on our wedding night, too? Is she going to be warming your bed on our wedding night, too?"