Leaving a Cheating Fiancé

The marble floors of the city registry office gleamed under fluorescent lights as I approached the reception desk, my heart hammering against my ribs. Ten years. Ten years of waiting, planning, dreaming of this moment when Hudson and I would finally make it official.

"I'm here for the Bishop-Riley appointment," I told the clerk, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands.

The woman's fingers clicked across her keyboard, her brow furrowing. "I'm sorry, miss, but I show a divorce consultation appointment under those names, not a marriage registration."

The world tilted. "That's impossible. We scheduled this months ago."

She turned her monitor toward me, and there it was—our appointment slot, changed from marriage registration to divorce filing consultation. My eyes locked onto the signature at the bottom of the change request form: *Fallon Davis*.

Ninety-nine times. This was the ninety-ninth time that woman had sabotaged our wedding plans with her "innocent mistakes."

I gripped the counter's edge, my knuckles white. "When was this change made?"

"Yesterday afternoon, miss. The request came through the groom's office."

Yesterday. While I'd been picking up my dress for the ceremony photos we'd planned to take after signing the papers. While I'd been texting Hudson about dinner reservations to celebrate. While I'd been living in a fool's paradise, believing this time would be different.

The drive to Hudson's office passed in a blur of rage and disbelief. My hands shook as I stabbed the elevator button, each floor that passed only stoking the fire burning in my chest. The familiar ding of the thirty-second floor felt like a death knell.

Hudson's assistant looked up in surprise as I stormed past her desk. "Miss Riley, Mr. Bishop is in a meeting—"

"Not anymore."

I threw open his office door without knocking. Hudson sat behind his mahogany desk, his dark head bent toward Fallon, who perched on the edge of his desk in a way that was far too intimate for any professional relationship. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulder as she leaned closer to him, pointing at something on his laptop screen.

"Elliot." Hudson's voice carried surprise and something that might have been annoyance. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" My voice cracked with fury. "I just came from the registry office, Hudson. Care to explain why our marriage appointment has been changed to a divorce consultation?"

Fallon straightened, her blue eyes widening with practiced innocence. "Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry! I must have clicked the wrong option when I was updating the calendar. These computer systems are so confusing."

The same excuse. Always the same excuse, delivered with that breathy, helpless tone that made men want to rescue her.

"Ninety-nine times, Fallon." I stepped closer to Hudson's desk, my voice deadly quiet. "Ninety-nine times you've made this exact same mistake. What are the odds?"

Hudson stood, his jaw tightening. "Elliot, you're being unreasonable. Fallon's been dealing with her mother's illness, and she's been distracted. These things happen."

"These things happen?" I stared at him in disbelief. "Hudson, we've been engaged for ten years. Ten years, and every time we try to actually get married, your secretary finds a way to sabotage it. And you defend her every single time."

"I'm not defending anyone. I'm being rational." Hudson's tone was patronizing, the same tone he used when he thought I was being overly emotional. "Fallon made a mistake. She'll fix it."

Fallon's phone buzzed on the desk, and something snapped inside me. I lunged for it before either of them could react, my fingers flying across the screen to unlock it. Hudson's contact photo smiled back at me—not the professional headshot from his company website, but an intimate photo I'd never seen before, taken at some restaurant I didn't recognize.

My blood turned to ice as I scrolled through her photo gallery. There they were—dozens of pictures of Hudson and Fallon together. Dinner dates at romantic restaurants. Weekend getaways to places he'd never taken me. Hudson's arm around her waist at some corporate event, both of them laughing like lovers sharing a private joke.

The phone trembled in my hands as I stared at a photo dated just last weekend—Hudson and Fallon on a yacht, her head on his shoulder as they watched the sunset. The same weekend he'd told me he was working late on the Morrison account.

"You lying bastard." The words tore from my throat as I hurled the phone against the wall with all my strength. It shattered on impact, pieces of glass and plastic scattering across the hardwood floor.

Hudson's face went white, then red with anger. "Elliot! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?" I laughed, a sound devoid of any humor. "What's wrong with me is that I've been planning our wedding while you've been playing house with your secretary."

Fallon burst into tears, her hands flying to her face. "I can't believe you broke my phone! All my photos of my mother are on there!"

"Elliot." Hudson's voice was cold, commanding. "Apologize to Fallon. Now."

I stared at him, this man I'd loved for ten years, this man who was demanding I apologize to the woman who'd been systematically destroying our relationship. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Apologize for destroying her property and acting like a jealous child."

The words hit me like a physical blow. After everything—after ten years of loyalty, of putting our relationship first, of defending him to my friends and family when they questioned his commitment—he was calling me a jealous child.

"No." The word came out steady, final. "I will not apologize for refusing to be humiliated anymore."