MARRYING THE BILLIONAIRE DON TO RUIN MY THREE BETRAYING FIANCÉS

The call lasted forty-five seconds.

"Miss Chapman, are you certain you want to terminate all three accounts? The Henderson, Lawrence, and Smith family cards carry a combined monthly—"

"Cut them. Today."

"All three?"

"Did I stutter, Marcus?"

A pause. The sound of typing. "Done. Effective immediately."

I hung up and set my phone face-down on the velvet bench beside me. The boutique's fitting room was warm, lit by a row of soft bulbs that lined the mirror like a theater dressing room. A half-empty champagne flute sat on the side table — the shop attendant had poured it with a bright smile twenty minutes ago, before disappearing to steam the gown.

The gown.

It hung on a padded hanger behind me, catching the light in a way that made the silk look almost liquid. Pure white, with lace sleeves that ended just past the wrist and a train that pooled on the marble floor like spilled cream.

I stood and unzipped my dress. The silk slid over my shoulders, cool against my skin, and I pulled it down carefully, stepping into the skirt the way the attendant had shown me. The bodice fit close. The waist cinched without squeezing. When I turned to face the mirror, the woman staring back looked like someone I hadn't met yet.

Someone who might actually be happy.

I was reaching for the top button at the back of my neck when the fitting room door slammed open.

Yoel filled the doorway. Nelson stood just behind his right shoulder.

"Nice dress," Yoel said. His eyes traveled down the silk, then back up to my face. There was no admiration in the look. Only contempt.

"Get out."

He stepped inside. Nelson followed, pulling the door shut behind them. The lock clicked.

"You froze our cards," Yoel said.

"They were never your cards. They were Chapman family accounts extended as a courtesy during the engagement. The engagement is over."

"You vindictive—"

"Careful." I held his gaze. "Choose your next word wisely."

He didn't. Instead, he grabbed the lace at my left wrist and yanked.

The sound it made was small — a whisper of thread giving way — but it echoed in the tiny room like a gunshot. The sleeve tore from the shoulder seam, hanging by a few threads, exposing my arm from elbow to collarbone.

I jerked back. My hip hit the edge of the bench.

"That's a twelve-thousand-dollar gown."

"Bill me," Yoel said. "Oh wait — you just killed my credit line."

Nelson reached past him and caught the other sleeve. He didn't yank. He pinched the lace between his thumb and forefinger and pulled slowly, watching my face the whole time, like he wanted to memorize the exact moment the fabric gave way.

It tore with a long, thin rip.

I stood in the center of the fitting room with both sleeves hanging in shreds, the bodice still intact but the illusion shattered. The mirror behind me showed every inch of the damage.

"Feel better?" My voice came out steadier than my hands.

The door opened again.

Liam walked in like he owned the building. His gaze dropped to the torn lace pooling near my feet, and he stepped forward — directly onto the fallen strip of silk. His shoe ground it into the marble.

"Here's what's going to happen, Shirley." He crossed his arms. "You're going to call your father. You're going to tell him the Sullivan deal is off."

"No."

"You didn't let me finish." He shifted his weight, pressing harder on the ruined fabric. "After you cancel the wedding, you're going to take a new position. Amelia starts at St. Hartwell in the fall. She'll need someone to handle her schedule, her meals, her errands."

I blinked. "You want me to be her assistant."

"Her nanny," Liam corrected. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Think of it as community service."

"You're out of your mind."

"Am I?" He tilted his head. "You spent years holding us hostage with that engagement. Consider this payback."

"I just freed you. Voluntarily. And your idea of gratitude is asking me to babysit your girlfriend?"

"She's not my girlfriend." Liam's smile vanished. "She's the woman all three of us are going to marry."

Before I could answer, a fourth figure appeared in the doorway.

Amelia Jones wore a champagne-colored dress two sizes too large. The straps kept slipping off her narrow shoulders, and she held the neckline up with one hand while the other pressed against her cheek, fingers trembling.

Her eyes were red. Wet.

"Shirley," she whispered. "I'm so sorry to bother you. I know this is your fitting, and I would never — I just—"

She sniffled. A single tear rolled down her cheek with the precision of a woman who had practiced the angle.

"They told me about the nanny idea, and I said no. I told them it was too much to ask." She looked at the floor. "But I don't have anyone else. My parents can't afford to help me move, and the dorms are so far from campus, and I just thought — maybe — if you wouldn't mind—"

"Amelia." I cut through the performance. "Drop it."

Her wet eyes flickered. Just for a second, something hard glinted behind the tears.

"I'm only asking because they care about me," she said, her voice cracking on cue. "And I thought maybe you could care about me too."

"She said drop it," I repeated, but Yoel was already stepping between us, his back to me, shielding Amelia like she was the one standing in a torn wedding dress.

"You see what you do?" Yoel's voice was low. "You make everyone around you miserable."

"She's crying because you coached her to cry."

Nelson moved before I saw it coming.

His palm hit the center of my chest — not a punch, but a shove, hard and flat. My feet tangled in the ruined train. I went down fast, no time to catch myself, and my knees cracked against the marble floor. Pain shot up through both legs, sharp and white.

The champagne flute toppled off the side table and shattered beside me.

I stayed on the ground. Not because I couldn't get up. Because I wanted to see their faces clearly from below.

Yoel looked away. Liam stared at a point above my head. Nelson's expression hadn't changed — flat, indifferent, like he'd swatted a fly.

And Amelia.

She still stood in the doorway, one hand clutching her oversized dress, the other now resting at her side. The tears were gone. In their place was a smile — small, private, meant for no one but herself.

She caught me looking and the smile vanished, replaced instantly by wide, wounded eyes.

But I'd seen it.

I pressed my palms against the cold marble and felt the broken glass bite into my skin. Blood welled up in a thin line across my left palm.

The fitting room was silent except for my breathing and the faint hum of the boutique's sound system playing something soft and bridal through the walls.

I looked up at the four of them — three men who hated me and one woman who was better at pretending than any of them — and I smiled.

It was not a kind smile.

"You're going to regret this," I said quietly. "Every single one of you."

Nelson scoffed. Liam rolled his eyes. Yoel was already turning toward the door, his hand on Amelia's back, guiding her out.

But Amelia glanced over her shoulder one last time.

And for just a flash — half a heartbeat — I saw the flicker of doubt cross her face.

She should be afraid.

Because the woman kneeling on this floor was not the same woman who would stand up from it.