The Day My Fiancée Married Another

I was finally marrying Savi, the girl I'd given up my dream tech job for, the one for whom I'd poured years into building software for her family's oil company. Today was supposed to be our day to get our marriage license, the culmination of a five-year journey, two of them spent dedicated to her father's business. Then her text came, an hour before the courthouse: a "massive family emergency." A quick dismissal for our future. Soon after, a plain envelope arrived. Inside: a marriage certificate. Savannah Monroe. Married. To her personal assistant. Today. She showed up later, tear-streaked and with Caleb, who looked suspiciously unwell. "Terminal leukemia," she tearfully explained. "His dying wish. A compassionate act. It changes nothing for *us*." She called *me* selfish for questioning this insane charade, for having the audacity to care that my fiancée just married another man. The sheer, breathtaking nerve of it. Married someone else, spun a ludicrous lie, and then tried to make me the villain for wanting out. This wasn't just a betrayal; it was a brazen insult, a transactional disregard for everything I'd built, for *us*. My gut churned with a cold, simmering rage. When her father's goons showed up, "insisting" I attend their crucial gala to play the dutiful fiancé for a multi-million-dollar deal, I had a choice. Play along for their empire, or turn their meticulously planned spotlight into their worst nightmare. I decided then and there: they wanted a show? They'd get a show.