Introduction

The flashbulbs were blinding, the "Rising Critic" statuette heavy and cold in my grasp.

Outside the hotel, amidst the swarm of photographers, a familiar figure pushed through and knelt before me.

Jake Brown, my ex-fiancé, held open a velvet box, a diamond winking under the harsh lights.

"Emily," he rasped, a sound I once knew intimately, "Marry me. Again."

His family materialized behind him, beaming, a well-rehearsed chorus expecting my tears and a trembling, "Yes, oh, yes!"

But they'd forgotten-or perhaps never knew-the full story of how he'd publicly accused me of sabotaging his signature dish.

How he'd whispered lies to the restaurant owner, implying I pilfered expensive ingredients.

How I was fired on the spot, my name dragged through the mud, my culinary dreams torched.

His mother, Carol, tried to paint him as a suffering hero, claiming he'd spent a fortune clearing my name from the food poisoning incident.

Yet, I remembered the real origins: the cheap, peanut-contaminated oil, the plagiarism he later framed me for.

I remembered being left with a shattered wrist in a dark alley, as he walked away, abandoning me to a mob that *he* had stirred against me.

His grand gesture now felt like the ultimate insult, dripping with manufactured sympathy-and unbearable blame.

Three years had been long enough to heal, to rebuild, to find a love that didn't demand sacrifice, yet they had the audacity to stage this performance.

How could they stand here, rewriting history, when *he* had ripped everything from me?

My voice was even, devoid of the storm that once raged, as I held up my left hand.

A simple, elegant gold band gleamed beside my engagement ring-Noah's ring.

"Jake and I ended things three years ago," I stated, my eyes steady.

"And for your information, I'm already married."

The collective gasp and intensifying flashbulbs signaled that *my* story, the real one, was just beginning.