Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Watch Me Shine

"Mr. Rhodes's family crest will be hand-carved by a Michelin three-star chef."

The wedding planner, Mr. Price, gestured toward an illustration of an elaborate ice sculpture. His voice was slick with a practiced reverence that made Eve's stomach tighten.

She sat alone at a long polished table in the Vera Wang VIP suite. Spread before her were blueprints for a life she was supposed to want: samples of "ocean heart" themed china, photos of white roses flown in from France, fabric swatches for tablecloths.

Across from her, an empty velvet chair seemed to mock her. It was where Augustine was supposed to be.

"It looks perfect," Eve said, forcing a smile that felt brittle on her lips. "Let's go with that plan."

Mr. Price glanced at the Patek Philippe on his wrist. "Will Mr. Rhodes be joining us today? There are a few seating arrangements for the guests that require his personal confirmation."

Eve's fingers tightened around her porcelain coffee cup. The heat did nothing to warm them. "He has an international conference call. He couldn't get away."

The lie was smooth, practiced.

"I can decide on the seating," she added, her voice quiet but firm.

A flicker of understanding—and something like pity—crossed Mr. Price's face before it was masked by a professional smile. "Of course. You are the lady of the house."

He said the words, but his hand subtly pushed a guest list marked "Top Priority" to the center of the table. The message was clear. Some decisions were above her pay grade.

Eve's gaze swept over the names. Vanderbilt. Rockefeller. The weight of centuries of old money pressed down on her. The air in the room felt thin.

She took a slow breath and began. "The Astors will be at table three, with the Carnegies. They summer together."

She moved through the list, her memory sharp, her arrangements flawless. Mr. Price's eyebrows lifted in surprise.

Two hours later, every detail was finalized. Augustine's phone had gone unanswered the entire time.

Then, a text.

I'm busy. You decide.

The words were cold, efficient. A tiny, sharp pain pierced through the numbness in her chest.

She typed out a reply: Okay. Rest early.

Her thumb hovered over the send button. The sentence looked pathetic. Needy.

She deleted it.

OK.

She hit send.

Outside, the cool New York evening air was a welcome shock to her skin. She dismissed the driver, needing to walk, to feel the hard pavement under her feet.

Fifth Avenue's glittering windows showcased jewels and gowns, each one a silent testament to a fantasy she was failing to live.

She ducked into a small café, the warmth a temporary comfort. Her phone buzzed. It was her best friend, Chloe Hayes.

You okay, honey? Don't wear yourself out.

Eve typed back a smiling emoji. I'm fine. Everything's going smoothly.

She opened her news app, scrolling to the finance section. It was one of the few ways she tried to understand Augustine's world.

A push notification flashed across the top of her screen. An entertainment headline.

Billionaire Augustine Rhodes, Wedding Imminent, Spotted with Mystery Blonde at Airport!

Her breath caught. It had to be a mistake. Clickbait.

She tapped the link.

The air left her lungs. Her blood turned to ice.

The photo was brutally clear. Augustine, in the VIP airport terminal, wearing the dark grey overcoat she had picked out for him that morning. But he wasn't wearing the tie she'd matched with it.

He was angled slightly, shielding a woman from the imagined press. His hand rested on the small of her back, a gesture of casual, confident possession.

The woman, a cascade of brilliant blonde hair, wore sunglasses but her smile was radiant. She was pressed against his side, a perfect fit.

Eve knew her instantly. Bianca Cherry.

Augustine's childhood sweetheart. The one the Rhodes family had always wanted for him. The one who had left for Paris three years ago.

The caption beneath the photo read: A source reveals Ms. Cherry's return may be to reclaim what was rightfully hers.

The warm café air grew thin, suffocating. A wave of dizziness washed over her. The phone slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the small table.

Heads turned. Eve didn't notice. Her world had shrunk to that single, damning photograph and the words: reclaim what was rightfully hers.

She scrambled to her feet, grabbing her purse and phone, and stumbled out of the café, desperate to escape the unseen eyes, the silent judgment.

She dialed Augustine's number.

This time, it didn't just ring.

It was declined.

A second later, a text from him appeared.

Don't call.

Eve stood frozen on the bustling sidewalk, the city's vibrant life a blur of noise and light. She was a clown in a tragedy only she was performing in.

She remembered their wedding day, a year ago. The contract. "Our marriage is a business arrangement," he had told her, his blue eyes as cold as a winter sky. "Don't have any expectations of me."

She had been so naive, thinking she could melt the ice.

Now she understood. The ice wasn't meant to be melted. His spring just belonged to someone else.

Her phone rang again. The caller ID read: Mrs. Davis. The housekeeper.

Her hand trembled as she answered.

"Ma'am?" Mrs. Davis's voice was hesitant. "Will you be returning for dinner? Mr. Rhodes... he will not be coming home tonight either."