Chapter 1: The Instagram Betrayal

My junior posted sexy bed photos of my fiancée on his Instagram.

I was furious, my hands shaking as I scrolled through the feed.

She didn't even pause her Netflix show: "What does it have to do with you? I said I'd marry you, not that I'd love you."

She was certain I wouldn't marry anyone but her, and certain of the marriage alliance between our two families—the kind of merger-disguised-as-marriage that kept Greenwich country clubs in business.

Until the pure campus belle posted a wedding photo of us on her Instagram.

She showed up like a hurricane in Louboutins, pounding on my apartment door at two in the morning.

I raised my ring finger with the wedding band, the platinum catching the hallway light: "What does it have to do with you? You're not my wife."

My junior posted bed photos of my fiancée on his Instagram.

Ocean view room at the Ritz-Carlton, she was wearing sexy lingerie, sound asleep on sheets that probably cost more than most people's rent.

Friends' discussions exploded in the group chat, everyone tagging me with those little fire emojis that made my stomach turn.

[@Michael Chen, isn't that your fiancée in bed?]

[This room must cost eight hundred per night. Rich people really know how to play.]

[Who exactly is her boyfriend? What's the situation? Playing so wildly.]

I received the messages while sitting in my corner office overlooking downtown Hartford, and immediately called her, my jaw locked up like a vault door.

Who knew she was indifferent on the other end, her voice carrying that casual cruelty she'd perfected over years of getting everything she wanted: "What does it have to do with you? Our wedding is still a year away. It's not your turn to manage me yet."

"Besides, I only agreed to marry you, not to love you." She said it like she was ordering a latte—two pumps vanilla, no foam. I could practically hear the barista's bored "Next!" in her tone.

Before I could respond, before I could even process the casual devastation of her words, she hung up.

Not long after, maybe twenty minutes while I sat there staring at my mahogany desk, my junior posted another photo.

Both dressed lightly in matching silk robes, his arm around my fiancée's waist, eyes full of pride like he'd just closed the deal of the century.

I directly took off the engagement ring—a three-carat Tiffany solitaire that had cost me six months' salary—and sent a message:

[The wedding's off. I'll mail the ring back to you via FedEx. Do whatever you want.]

Rachel Turner and I were childhood sweethearts, grew up together in the same gated community in Greenwich, our families arranged the marriage early like we were characters in some nineteenth-century novel.

I thought we were mutually in love, well-matched, completely killing two birds with one stone—love and business wrapped up in one neat package.

But unexpectedly, she dated one guy after another, collecting boyfriends like limited edition Birkins—one for every occasion.

I used to think she just hadn't had enough fun, didn't want to be bound by marriage so soon—maybe needed to get the wildness out of her system before settling into country club life.

Because I loved her, or thought I did, I could tolerate it.

But now, scrolling through those photos again, I suddenly wondered.

What exactly did she take me for? Her safety net? Her retirement plan?

Rachel Turner called on FaceTime, her perfectly contoured face full of disdain, mocking: "Is Michael throwing a tantrum? Saying no wedding means no wedding? Have you called to ask if your mom agrees?" She was sitting in what looked like a spa, cucumber slices over her eyes.

The anger accumulated in my heart ignited like someone had dropped a lit cigarette at a gas station.

"My words represent my family's position. From now on, you and I will never contact each other again." My voice was steady, the kind of calm that comes right before you flip the conference table. The kind that makes HR reach for their phones.

Rachel Turner was stunned for a moment, pulling off the cucumber slices, seeming confused: "What are you going crazy about? When I was with my ex-boyfriend before, didn't you even treat us to dinner at that steakhouse in Tribeca?"

The voice of junior Lucas Shaw beside her came through, still reeking of Axe body spray and entitlement. He sneered: "Oh, your fiancé is angry. Tell him we're playing house. Anyway, you'll still marry him in the end."

Playing?

Do you want to play in the bathroom or on the sofa? If you make a baby, should it call me daddy? The image made my fist itch for his perfect veneered teeth.

Lucas Shaw continued leisurely on the other side, probably lounging in a terry cloth robe that cost more than most people's rent: "Baby, aren't you going to coax Michael? I see he's really angry."

I felt annoyed and wanted to hang up, my finger hovering over the red button.

I heard Rachel Turner's voice cold, tone certain as death and taxes:

"Nothing to coax. He's been like this since childhood. He'll be fine after throwing a fit. Don't mind him." I could practically see her waving me off like a mosquito through the screen.

Then indulgently said, in that baby voice she used when she wanted something expensive:

"Lucas, didn't you say you've never flown first class? I'll book you the most expensive ticket for tomorrow's return—maybe we'll get the suite with the shower on Emirates."