The Sunk Cost: Leaving My Billionaire Fiancé

Atticus stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the foyer.

He pulled the sleek black phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. Instantly, the rigid, bored expression he had worn all night vanished.

His jaw tightened, and a raw, unfiltered tension gripped his shoulders.

He pressed the answer button and brought the phone to his ear. He didn't even bother to step away from Charlotte.

"I'm here," Atticus said.

His voice was incredibly low. It was soft, soothing, and laced with a desperate kind of gentleness that Charlotte hadn't heard directed at her in years.

Faint, muffled crying leaked from the phone speaker.

"Shh, it's okay. Just breathe. I'm on my way," Atticus murmured into the receiver.

He ended the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket. He spun around, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor, and grabbed the keys to his Porsche from the console table.

Charlotte stood frozen in the center of the living room. "Where are you going? It's past midnight."

Atticus didn't even look at her. He kept walking toward the door. "There's an emergency at the firm. I have to handle it."

The lie was so blatant it felt like a slap to the face. He never used his private, encrypted number for corporate emergencies.

"Atticus-"

The heavy front door slammed shut, cutting off her words. The loud bang echoed through the massive, empty penthouse.

Charlotte walked slowly to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. A minute later, she watched the black Porsche shoot out of the underground garage, its tires squealing as it disappeared into the Manhattan night.

A hollow, crushing weight collapsed onto her chest.

She kicked off her high heels. Her bare feet hit the freezing hardwood floor, the cold seeping straight into her bones.

She walked down the long hallway and pushed open the door to her massive walk-in closet.

Hanging dead center, illuminated by a spotlight, was her custom Vera Wang wedding dress.

The pure white silk and delicate French lace looked like a cruel joke. It looked like a costume for a play that had just been canceled.

She reached out, her trembling fingers brushing against the soft tulle of the skirt.

Memories flashed behind her eyes. The teenage boy who used to carry her on his back when she scraped her knee. The young man who promised to protect her from the world. He was gone. Replaced by a cold machine who looked at her pain with blank indifference.

She turned her back on the dress and walked into the study.

She opened the top drawer of the mahogany desk and pulled out the crumpled prenuptial agreement.

She picked up a heavy silver fountain pen. She hovered the metal nib over the signature line. Her hand shook so violently she couldn't even form the first letter of her name.

A hot, burning sense of humiliation rose in her throat.

She dropped the pen. It clattered loudly against the wood.

She grabbed the thick stack of legal papers with both hands and ripped them straight down the middle. The sound of tearing paper was sharp and violent. She tore them again, and again, until her hands ached, then threw the shredded pieces into the metal wastebasket.

She grabbed her phone and dialed Eleanor Frye.

The phone rang twice before her best friend answered. "Charlie? It's late, what's wrong?"

Hearing Eleanor's familiar, warm voice broke the last dam inside Charlotte.

A sob ripped out of her throat. She sank to the floor, her knees hitting the rug.

"I can't do it, El," Charlotte choked out, tears finally streaming down her face, hot and fast. "I don't want to marry him. I have to get out."

Eleanor gasped on the other end. "Oh my god, honey. I've got you. I'm right here. We are meeting tomorrow, first thing. I'll help you fix this."

Charlotte hung up the phone. Her chest heaved as she cried on the floor of the empty apartment, but beneath the agonizing pain, a tiny, sharp sliver of relief pierced through.

She dragged herself up, walked into the bathroom, and turned the shower on as hot as it would go, letting the water wash away the chill of the night.

Atticus did not come home.

The next morning, Charlotte sat at her vanity. She applied a heavy layer of concealer to hide the dark, bruised-looking bags under her eyes. She put on a sharp, tailored blazer and a pair of slacks. Armor.

She grabbed her purse, walked out of the penthouse, and locked the door behind her.