LYDIA’S POV

The silence of the taxi was a mercy I didn't deserve. My phone, however, was a relentless executioner, it kept vibrating against my thigh.

It was probably notification from the social media accounts I had forgotten to mute.

I finally looked and…I froze.

At the top of the trending local chart was Patrick's name. He had posted a high-resolution shot of him and Lydia holding hands and sharing a lingering, cinematic kiss.

He hadn't even waited for the scent of my perfume to fade from his sheets before going public.

The caption read:

“I finally found my soulmate and this time, it hits different.”

I almost let out a scoff. Soulmate? What was I? A playmate?

I tapped on the post, my vision blurring as I scrolled through the comments.

“Took him seven years to realize he was dating the wrong Lydia,” one read, followed by a laughing emoji.

“Finally, he’s free of that lovesick bitch. She was always clinging to him like a desperate puppy,” another sneered.

“Seven years and no ring? That’s why she lost. She was just a placeholder.”

They were right.

It was pathetic how the internet, in all its cruelty, saw what I had refused to acknowledge.

I had been a fool, a lovesick bitch who ignored every red flag, every cold shoulder, and every late-night meeting just to keep a seat at a table where I was never truly welcome.

A new message banner slid across the top of the screen. It wasn't from a stranger. It was from my father.

YOU BETTER GET THE FUCK HOME!

The familiar drumming at my chest returned and Instinctively took a deep breath to calm my racing heart.

Almost immediately the taxi pulled to a stop in front of the familiar, looming gates of my childhood home. My heart sank into my stomach. I paid the driver with trembling hands and dragged my luggage toward the front door.

I felt like a soldier returning from a lost war, carrying the remains of a life that no longer existed.

I pushed the door open.

“You insolent daughter!” The roar echoed through the living room before I could even draw a breath. I didn't have time to react before a heavy ceramic vase whistled through the air. It missed my head but shattered against the floor inches from my feet.

A jagged shard sliced through the skin of my ankle. I didn't scream; I just watched the thin line of red bloom against my pale skin.

My father stood in the center of the room, his face purple with rage. “Useless!” he bellowed. “You can’t even keep a man! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Patrick pulled out of the Riverside Project and froze the tech merger. The moment he did, the others followed. In less than an hour, we’ve lost hundreds of millions!” My father spat, his voice trembling with a different kind of violence.

“I’ll be bankrupt by morning, and it’s all because you were too pathetic to hold onto him!”

I knew that had happened but didn't realize how fast it would. He really was waiting for the breakup before he brutally erased me from his life.

Since I met Patrick, our family had risen from struggling nobodies to the heights of the middle class. Patrick’s investments were the only thing keeping my father’s company afloat.

“Kneel.” He pointed at the floor, his voice cutting through my haze.

I sank to my knees amidst the broken glass. My father reached into his favorite mahogany drawer and pulled out the leather whip.

Staring at that whip, brought back those memories I had always tried to push back.

Suddenly, I was five years old again, huddled in a corner of the nursery, watching that same whip rise and fall. I could hear my childhood cries echoing off the walls until my mother finally broke free from the servants holding her back, throwing her body over mine to take the blows meant for me.

Whip!

The leather bit into my shoulder, snapping me back to the present.

I clutched my fists, biting my lip so hard I tasted copper. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a sob.

“Acting tough now?” he growled, raising his arm again. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Before the whip could fall a second time, the door burst open. Our butler, breathless and pale, stumbled in. “Sir! Sir, wait! There’s a letter!”

My father paused, the whip still trembling in the air. “This better be worth my time.”

“It’s a marriage proposal, sir. For Miss Lydia.”

The transformation in my father was sickening. He dropped the whip, the leather hitting the floor with a dull thud, and snatched the envelope. As he read, his eyes lit up with a predatory greed.

“She’s useful after all,” he whispered, a terrifying grin spreading across his face.

“The richest man in the country... he actually wants her.”

He looked down at me, his rage forgotten in the scent of fresh money.

“Get up. You’re getting married to Travis Hayes in twenty-four hours.”

My blood ran cold.

Travis Hayes?

My ex?

Travis was the lowly orphan in college I had once loved with every ounce of my soul.

He barely had something to survive on, throughout my relationship with him, I had fed him when he was hungry; I had been his only world until my father found out. He had threatened to sell my younger sister into a forced marriage if I didn't break up with Travis…break Travis's heart.

I had done it brutally, publicly, shattering him to save her and he never held it against me but the hurt, the pain he always carried in his eyes after that day broke me.

Eventually he dropped out and years later, rumors surfaced that he wasn't an orphan at all, but the long-lost heir to the Hayes empire. I was happy for him and the past seven years in Patrick's grasp, completely erased his existence from my mind.

But why?

Why would he want to marry me immediately when my humiliation and breakup had become a hot topic online?

“I won't marry him,” I whispered.

My father stopped mid-stride. “What did you say?”

“I said I won't marry him.”

Slap!

His hand moved faster than I could see. The slap sent me sprawling onto the floor, my vision swimming.

“You are a tool!” he screamed. “You are just a ladder for me to climb to high society! You don't have an option!”

I spat out blood, glaring at him.

He seemed so pathetic to look at. He was going crazy about my marriage to the same boy he forced me to break into pieces.

He had only known I was in a relationship back then and never did a thorough investigation.

What if he finds out he was the same trash he scorned? Would he still be acting mad like he is?

“I won't marry him!"

“Fine." He pulled out his phone giving me a cold snarl.

“If you won't go, I’ll send your sister instead. I’m sure Travis won't mind the younger version.”

“No!” I lunged for his hand, clutching his trousers from the floor. “No, don't involve her. I’ll go. I’ll marry him. Just leave her alone.”

He patted my head, his touch oily and cold. “Good girl.” A cruel smile plastered on his lips.

His phone chirped again.

He looked at the screen and let out a dry chuckle. “Well, it seems your ex-boyfriend has one last request.”

My heart skipped a beat.

"Patrick is holding an engagement ceremony tonight for his new girl and he wants you there, Lydia. Since you can't keep a man, he wants you to be the one to present the rings.”

My heart constricted so violently I thought it would burst. He didn't just want to replace me; he wanted to watch me serve the one thing I'd always wanted…to watch him place it on another girl's finger.

“I’ll do it,” I said, my voice dead.

“Finally you've grown some common sense." My father beamed.

“You have five hours to get ready. Don't you dare make him realize you're getting married and you better get back home early. First thing tomorrow morning, you fly to France for your wedding.”

I gave a curt nod watching him walk out with the butler, leaving me alone on the floor with my blood and his broken glass.

My fist balled as a tear rolled down my cheek.

Patrick wanted to see me break? Fine. I would give him his show.

I would hand him that ring, and maybe that will finally kill the last shred of feelings I've got for him.

LYDIA’S POV

I stepped out of the taxi, my hand instinctively clutching my purse tighter.

I looked up at the entrance of the grand hall and I felt the air being sucked out of my lungs.

Banners draped the pillars, fluttering in the evening breeze.

“To the Everlasting Us.”

“The Engagement of Mr. and soon-to-be Mrs. Moore.”

“Welcome to the Patrick Moore and Lydia Scott Engagement Party.”

Ironic how my name was everywhere, but it wasn't for me…I wasn't the one getting engaged.

Two hours ago, I was picking glass shards out of my skin and taping bandages over a bleeding ankle. Now, I was walking into the funeral of my own life.

I took a shaky breath and pushed through the doors, walking into the hall.

“Oh, if it isn’t my namesake.” The voice was high, airy, and laced with a sugar-coated poison.

I looked up to see her—the other Lydia. She stood there in a gown of pure white, a soft, victorious smirk playing on her lips.

I made to walk past her, my gaze fixed on the floor. Suddenly, I felt her arm on mine pulling me back to face her. I stumbled, the hem of my dress catching under my heel, and I fell flat on my face. My palms slapped against the cold marble, the impact jarring my bandaged ankle, my purse flying.

“You’re really pathetic, aren't you?” she snarled, her voice dropping so only I could hear it. “He dumped you, yet you’re still crawling around at our engagement.”

The room went quiet. I could feel hundreds of eyes on me.

Almost immediately, people began to circle, their whispers like the buzzing of flies as I tried to recoil away from them.

“How does it feel to see him with me? To see him trash seven years of your relationship—even after you had three abortions just to keep him to yourself?” She raised her voice, ensuring the crowd heard every word.

The room erupted in a collective gasp.

“Three abortions?”

“How shameless.”

“She’s nothing but a slut.”

I could feel the air jarring out of my throat in a rush. I stayed on the floor, my eyes stinging. They were right—not about the abortions, a lie she’d clearly fabricated to bury me—but about me being a fool. I had been a lovesick bitch for seven years, and this was my reward.

I picked up my purse and forced myself to stand, ignoring the pain shooting up my ankle as I did, swallowing the lump in my throat. “There’s no need to be so brutal, Miss Scott,” I whispered. “We are both women.”

She stumbled back, a harsh, ugly laugh bubbled out of her.

“Woman? A woman with no self-respect doesn’t deserve the title. I wonder, didn't your mother teach you any better?”

She stepped closer, her eyes flashing with malice. “Oh, I forgot. Your mother died because she couldn't control her man either. You’re just following in her footsteps. A mother no one loved, and a daughter begging for it. A pathetic combo made in heaven.”

My blood boiled. The years of restraint, the

high-society training, the fear of my father—it all vanished. Before I could think, my hand flew out.

Slap!

The sound echoed through the silent hall. Lydia’s head snapped to the side, her hand flying to her reddening cheek.

The crowd let out a shocked breath.

“You dare?!” she screamed, her face contorting.

“No,” I hissed, my teeth gritted, “how dare you.”

My fist balled at the sides, trying to calm my nerves.

Suddenly, footsteps thundered toward us and before I could say another word, Patrick was there. He moved like a shield, draping his arm protectively over Lydia’s shoulders as he glared at me with a disgust so deep it made my stomach turn.

“What the hell are you doing?” he roared at me.

Lydia immediately collapsed against his chest, her voice turning into a pathetic whimper. “Patrick... I’m sorry. I think my being with you upset her. She just hit me... You know how fragile I am, I didn't know how to retaliate.”

My chest heaved. My fists were balled so tight my nails were drawing blood from my palms.

“You can’t force Patrick to love you,” she continued, looking up at me with tear-filled eyes. “He doesn’t like trash like you. I shouldn't have mentioned your mother... I know she’s just a pawn to your father and so she couldn't raise you right.”

I saw red.

I swung my hand again, but this time, Patrick’s hand shot out, catching my wrist in a crushing grip.

“Do you always have to be so violent?” he yelled.

I stared at him, my heart breaking all over again.

I was the one being violent? After what she said?

“Apologize to my girlfriend,” he commanded.

I scoffed, a bitter sound. “I will not. You just saw her insult my mother, she did it twice! I will never apologize.”

“And that’s why you raised your hand to her?” he sneered. “Over something so minor?”

“Minor?” My voice cracked. Tears finally clouded my vision.

This man had once promised my mom to protect me. He had treated my mother like his own before she passed because he’d never had one and now, her memory was minor to him?

I wrenched my hand out of his grip.

Patrick’s gaze hardened, turning icy. “You’re starting to get some guts, aren't you? I said: apologize!”

“I won’t!”

Slap!

His hand connected with my cheek. I stumbled backwards, my face snapping to the side.

The hall went deathly silent.

People pulled out their phones, the flashes recording my humiliation for the world to see.

I turned to look at him, a single tear skidding down my cheek.

Patrick stared at his own hand, a brief flicker of bewilderment and guilt crossing his face.

“I... I didn’t do it on purpose,” he stuttered, though he didn't move toward me. “You forced me. If you had just listened and been obedient, I wouldn't have hit you. You caused this.”

I let out a broken laugh.

Seven years.

In seven years he had never raised a hand to me, but for her, he had broken that streak and then had the audacity to blame me for the blow.

He reached out, his hand trembling to wipe away my tears. I stepped back, recoiling from his touch as if it were acid.

Just then, an announcement blared.

“It is time for the exchange of rings!”

Lydia beamed, her trauma forgotten as she pulled Patrick toward the stage.

“Come on, darling.”

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, trying to find a shred of dignity.

“We invite Miss Lydia Parkers to the stage to present the rings to the happy couple.” The announcer's voice echoed again.

I pushed back my emotions as I made for the stage. I walked up the stairs, my legs feeling like lead.

I stopped right at the table and slowly picked up the velvet box from the table and held it out.

“Open it,” Patrick said, his voice smug. “Hand the ring to me.”

I forced a smile. He wanted to squeeze every last drop of blood from my heart and I'd let him.

I opened the box, my fingers trembling so much the gold band clinked against the velvet. I pulled it out and placed it in his palm.

I watched, blurred by tears I refused to let fall, as he took Lydia’s hand and slid the ring onto her finger. She beamed, planting a kiss on his cheek.

My chest tightened even more.

“Excuse me,” I choked out.

I didn't wait for a response. I turned and ran through the maze of the fancy gathering until I found the sanctuary of the bathroom.

I slammed the door, gripped the edges of the faucet, and let out a sob that had been seven years in the making.

I cried until my chest ached, the sound of the party outside mocking the ruin of my life.

LYDIA’S POV

I don’t know how long I sat on the cold floor of the bathroom stall, but eventually, the sobbing stopped. It didn’t stop because I was comforted; it stopped because I was empty. There was nothing left to squeeze out.

I stood up, my legs shaking, and moved to the sink. I splashed freezing water onto my face, trying to shock the puffiness out of my eyes. I watched the water droplets slide down the mirror, mimicking the tears I was determined to stop shed.

I opened my purse, pulled out a handkerchief, and dabbed my skin dry. I reapplied my lipstick and fixed my makeup until the woman in the glass looked like a polished doll instead of a discarded scrap of humanity.

I checked my phone.

8:30 PM.

I needed to get home to my father’s house, to get ready to leave this life for good.

My gaze shifted to the mirror as I practiced a smile. It was a tight, brittle thing, but it would hold. I pushed open the door and stepped back into the hall.

The atmosphere had shifted.

The music was off, and the guests were huddled in groups, whispering. The room looked disheveled, as if a storm had blown through and in the center of the floor, Lydia was draped over Patrick’s arm, sobbing hysterically.

I kept my head down, my gaze fixed on the exit. I didn't want to be a character in their play anymore or be dragged deeper into it. I just wanted to vanish.

“Stop!”

The screech was like nails on a chalkboard.

I froze.

Lydia untangled herself from Patrick and marched toward me, her face contorted with a fake, tearful rage.

“We’ve been searching for minutes!” she snarled, loud enough for every socialite in the room to hear. “We’ve searched the staff, we’ve searched the tables... and the reason we haven't found it is because you stole it!”

I felt a cold prickle of dread. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t pretend!” she yelled. “My engagement ring! You were so pained that Patrick chose me that you stole it out of spite! You couldn’t handle seeing it on my finger!”

My breath caught, staring at her making those void accusations without batting an eye.

A dry, bitter laugh almost escaped me.

“Why would I want a ring that belongs to you?”

"I just upended my purse in the bathroom and there was no ring in it. The last time I checked, I left as soon as he put it on your finger, how could I have taken it?”

If I hadn't just touched up my makeup, I'd probably be getting sweaty palms.

“You’re lying!” She yelled, her eyes darted to my handbag. “If you didn't take it, let us check your purse.”

My grip tightened on the leather strap.

I knew what this was. I wasn't stupid. This was the final nail in the coffin, the ultimate humiliation to ensure I could never show my face in this city again. They were trying to frame me.

“No,” I said firmly. “I won’t give you the satisfaction.” I snarled and made to get the hell out of there, but before I could move, she snatched the purse from my hand with a violent jerk and upended it.

My compact, my lipstick, and my handkerchief spilled across the marble floor and then…with a sickening clink, a band of gold and diamond rolled across the floor, coming to a rest right at Patrick’s feet.

The silence that followed was deafening.

My heart didn't even race; it felt like it had simply stopped beating.

They had framed me!

In the five minutes I was in the bathroom or in her pretense of looking for something, someone—a waiter, a guest, or Lydia herself—had slipped that ring into my bag.

Slap!

Lydia’s hand struck my other cheek, the one Patrick hadn't already bruised. “How dare you!” she screamed. “I thought you had at least a shred of dignity left, but you’re just a common thief!”

I just stared at the ring, my mind going blank.

Patrick picked up the ring, his face a mask of cold disappointment. He walked up to me, and for a second, a spark of the old Lydia tried to fight.

I grabbed the lapels of his suit, my voice trembling. “Patrick, you have to believe me. I didn't take it. I just checked my purse for my lipstick and it wasn't there. They're lying!”

Patrick gaze moved to mine, he looked at my hands as if they were filth and without a second thought he peeled my fingers off his suit and shoved me back.

“I didn't expect this from you, Lydia. You’ve embarrassed every memory we ever had. Apologize to her. Now!”

The last flickering light of hope in my soul went out staring at the anger radiating through him.

He didn't trust me.

Seven years of knowing my character, and he chose a lie concocted in a year.

“I will not apologize for something I didn't do,” I said, my voice sounding hollow and distant, as if someone else were speaking.

“You know how much I hate being disobeyed!” Patrick yelled, his face darkening.

“Guards! Hold her down!”

Strong hands grabbed my shoulders, forcing me onto my knees. I struggled, the jagged glass cut on my ankle screaming in pain as it pressed against the floor.

Slowly, Patrick bent in front of me, lifting my chin so I had to look into his icy eyes.

“Apologize,” he whispered.

“No.”

“Okay.” He leaned back, a cruel smile touching his lips. “Your father is already facing bankruptcy. I think I’ll call my assistant and tell him to speed up the process. I’ll make sure your family doesn't have a cent to their name by midnight.”

“No!” The scream tore from my throat.

My sister.

If my father lost everything, he would destroy her. “I’ll... I’ll apologize.”

He looked at me with a terrifying calm.

“You should have been obedient sooner. Now I’m angry.” He snarled, stepping backwards.

"You won't just say sorry anymore, you will kowtow to my fiancée and chant: 'I am just a worthless slut who is jealous of you'... five times.”

I stared at him tears.

This was the man I had loved.

This was the man I had given my youth to.

I felt the hot sting of tears, but as I looked at the smug, glittering face of the new Lydia, something inside me simply... broke.

The pain was so intense that it reached a peak and then went numb.

I leaned forward and pressed my forehead to the cold, hard marble.

“I am just a worthless slut who is jealous of you,” I whispered.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

When I finished the fifth, the guards' grip loosened.

I stood up slowly. I didn't brush the dust off my dress. I didn't look at the crowd. I didn't feel the shame they wanted me to feel.

I felt nothing.

I was dead inside, and there was a strange, terrifying peace in that.

I stumbled out of the hall into the cool night air and hailed a taxi. As I was about to step inside, a hand clamped onto my arm.

I turned…It was Patrick.

I looked at his hand, then at his face. I reached down and slowly, finger by finger, removed his hand from my skin.

“You look so pathetic right now,” he muttered, though there was a strange tension in his voice. “If you had just obeyed, it wouldn't have gone this far.”

"I’ve told someone to drive you home. Tell the cab to leave.”

“No need,” I said. My voice wasn't angry. It wasn't sad. It was bland. It was the voice of a woman speaking to a stranger she would never see again.

I turned to the taxi, but he grabbed me again. “Don’t be so dramatic! If you keep this up, I’ll really get angry and when you come back begging for me to take you back into my arms, I won’t let you.”

I paused.

A small, genuine chuckle escaped my lips. It was the first real thing I had felt all night.

“You can be well assured, Mr. Moore,” I whispered, “that will never happen.” I pulled my hand away for the last time and slid into the taxi.

As the car pulled away, making him shrink.inti the distance, a small smile grazed my lips.

The ache in my chest was gone. The weight that had crushed me for seven years had evaporated.

Patrick Moore, I finally don't love you anymore.