My Fiance Fell For A Livestreamer

That dinner ended on a sour note.

When Simon left, his chin was lifted higher than the crystal chandelier in the restaurant, as if I were the one who'd been caught using our joint money to bankroll a livestreamer.

I quickly gathered everything that had happened today and dumped it straight into the family group chat.

On the drive home, my head buzzed nonstop—half from anger, half from sheer disbelief.

The moment I stepped through the door, before I even changed my shoes, my phone started vibrating like mad.

I opened our three-person family chat. The message count was already at 99+.

My father—normally a calm, refined businessman—had sent a string of furious emoji.

[Decent on the outside, rotten on the inside! That brat Simon has been acting for five whole years!]

My mother's messages dripped with rage.

[Who found him his first job after graduation?

[Who arranged specialists when his father was hospitalized?

[And now that he's grown the backbone, he dares bully my daughter like this?]

She ended with an emoji of a knife.

Before I could type a reply, my phone buzzed again.

I switched screens. It was Simon.

[Cheryl, have you really thought this through? Women are worthless after thirty. Other than me, no one will want you. You'll never find anyone better than me.

[You were the one who proposed breaking off the engagement—you're the one who breached the contract.

[So those three apartments must be transferred half into my name as compensation.

[I spent five years of my youth on you—emotions, energy, everything. That's a huge investment. You owe me financial compensation.]

Each message was more outrageous than the last. My blood pressure shot through the roof.

I seriously wanted to toss my phone into the fish tank and let my turtle see what human trash looked like.

I let out a cold laugh and didn't reply to him at all.

Instead, I took screenshots—click, click, click—and sent them straight into the family group chat, unedited.

Then I opened all the group chats that had been created for our engagement preparations and, one by one, disbanded them."

With every confirmation chime, the knot in my chest loosened just a little.

Next, I turned on my computer and logged into the various booking platforms.

The lakeside lawn venue I'd been eyeing for ages—canceled.

The custom wedding dress slot I'd waited half a year for—canceled.

The five-star hotel ballroom where we'd tasted dishes three times—canceled.

Every time I clicked "Confirm cancellation," my mind grew a little clearer.

When it was all done, I collapsed onto the sofa, feeling like every ounce of strength had been drained from me.

My phone started vibrating wildly again on the coffee table—this time, a voice call.

On the screen flashed two words: Simon's Mom.

I stared at it for a few seconds and didn't answer.

It rang, stopped, rang again—then the messages began to pour in.

[Cheryl, how can you just cancel the engagement like that? Young couples fight all the time!

[If you insist on canceling, fine, but you must cough up every cent of the engagement money our family prepared—not a penny less!

[And we've already informed so many relatives and friends. Now you're saying it's off—how are we supposed to swallow this humiliation? You need to compensate us for emotional distress and lost income.

She sent a screenshot—then quickly withdrew it.

But I was fast enough. I'd already seen it.

It was a wedding banquet reservation confirmation. The venue wasn't any of the hotels we had discussed.

It was some farm-style restaurant I'd never even heard of, located in the suburban outskirts.

They'd booked twenty tables. The total price was clearly written: 5,000 dollars.

I almost laughed from anger.

Back then, knowing Simon's family wasn't well-off, my parents had taken the initiative to suggest that both sides contribute twenty thousand each to make the wedding decent. If it wasn't enough, we could add more.

Our side had more relatives and friends anyway; that proposal was plainly meant to save his family's face.

And yet, behind our backs, they'd already booked a banquet that cost five thousand.

So their math was simple: Take the twenty thousand from my family, subtract the five thousand for the banquet, and they'd pocket a profit of fifteen thousand.

Using my family's money to host the banquet and even playing middleman for a markup. Every ounce of their effort went into scheming.

I didn't even bother replying.

I opened my contacts and blocked Simon, his father, his mother, and every relative even remotely connected to his family.

Instantly, the world went quiet.

But the anger still sat there, squeezing my stomach until it hurt.

That night, lying in bed, I tossed and turned.

The moment I closed my eyes, all I saw were those chaotic scenes from the past.