Chapter 2

I stood frozen in the willow grove, the cold night air doing nothing to numb the fire raging in my chest. *A formality.* The words were a brand, searing themselves into my mind. Every shared memory, every whispered promise, every future I had so carefully built in my heart, crumbled into dust.

*No. This is a mistake. A misunderstanding,* a voice screamed inside my head. But the image of his tender concern for Isabel, a tenderness he no longer showed me, was burned onto the back of my eyelids.

Somehow, my legs carried me back inside. The warmth of the ballroom felt suffocating now, the laughter and chatter grating on my raw nerves. I moved through the crowd like a ghost, my emerald dress a mockery of celebration. People greeted me, their smiles wide and false, their eyes flicking over my shoulder, no doubt wondering where my fiancé was. I murmured responses, my own smile feeling like a plaster mask that was about to crack.

I found Sophie by the champagne fountain, her fiery red hair a beacon in the sea of muted tones. She took one look at my face and her own smile vanished.

"Clara? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost." Her hand was cool on my arm, her grip grounding.

"He was with Isabel," I whispered, the words tasting like poison. "In the garden."

Sophie's perfectly sculpted eyebrows shot up. "With her? What do you mean, 'with her'?" Her eyes scanned the room, her expression hardening as she spotted Mark across the ballroom. He was standing with Isabel, his hand still resting possessively on her back as he introduced her to his father. Isabel was glowing, soaking up the attention like a thirsty flower.

"He forgot me, Soph. He said... he said this was all just a formality."

"That bastard," she hissed, her voice low and furious. "After everything. No. We're leaving."

"I can't," I said, a desperate, foolish hope still flickering in my chest. "The announcement. His father is about to make the toast. He wouldn't... he wouldn't humiliate me in front of everyone. He'll do the right thing."

Sophie looked at me with a mixture of pity and frustration. "Clara, open your eyes. He's already humiliating you."

Before she could argue further, a hush fell over the room. Mark's father, a formidable man with a steel-grey mane and eyes as cold as his son's, tapped a glass with a silver spoon. The sound was sharp, demanding attention.

"Friends, family," he began, his voice booming with authority. "Thank you all for joining us on this momentous occasion."

Mark moved to the small, raised dais at the front of the room, his father clapping him on the shoulder. He looked out at the crowd, his eyes scanning, but not for me. He was looking for Isabel. He found her and gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod. A secret shared between them, right here in front of the world.

My feet felt rooted to the floor. I had to go up there. I had to stand beside him and pretend. For my family. For the "formality." As I took the first step, the weakness I'd been fighting all evening surged through me. My hand began to tremble, a fine, uncontrollable tremor. My vision swam for a second.

Across the room, I saw Dr. Evans, our family's old physician and a trusted friend, watching me. His brow was furrowed with deep concern. He caught my eye and mouthed, "Are you alright?" I gave a weak nod, but his expression didn't change. I saw him mutter something to his wife, his gaze fixed on me, a look of clinical worry on his face. He knew this was more than nerves. He saw the unnatural imbalance I felt deep in my soul.

Mark's father was still speaking, droning on about mergers and futures and the strength of family lines. "And now, I'll hand it over to my son, Mark, and his beautiful fiancée, Clara, for the official toast."

All eyes turned to me. The weight of their collective gaze was a physical pressure. I forced my legs to move, to carry me up the two small steps to the dais. The plush red carpet felt like quicksand. When I reached Mark's side, he didn't look at me. He didn't take my hand. He simply waited, his body angled slightly away from me, toward where Isabel stood watching.

The air crackled with tension. This was the moment, the sacred part of the ritual where we were supposed to exchange vows of intent, to toast to our shared future. Mark cleared his throat, holding his champagne flute aloft.

"Thank you, Father," he began, his voice cool and steady. "Tonight is about the future..."

He never finished the sentence.

A loud, theatrical cry cut through the room. All heads whipped toward the source of the sound. Isabel had crumpled to the floor near the edge of the dais, her hand outstretched, her face a mask of pain. She had "tripped." It was so obvious, so perfectly timed, that it was almost laughable. A single, perfect tear traced a path down her cheek.

The room held its breath. For one agonizing second, I thought Mark would ignore it. That he would see the manipulation for what it was and honor the woman standing beside him. That foolish, desperate hope flared one last time.

Then he moved.

He didn't just step toward her. He shoved me. The movement was brutal, dismissive. He pushed me aside to get to her, his arm connecting with my shoulder. The unexpected force sent me stumbling backward. My heel caught on the edge of the platform. Time seemed to slow down as I fought for balance, my arms windmilling uselessly.

And then I fell.

I landed hard on the polished marble floor, the impact jarring my bones. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The pain was sharp, but the humiliation was a tidal wave, drowning me. I looked up from the floor, my hair in my face, my dress askew, a pathetic heap at the foot of the stage.

Mark didn't even glance at me. He was already at Isabel's side, kneeling, cradling her as if she were made of spun glass. He smoothed her hair back from her face, his voice a frantic whisper. "Are you hurt? What happened?"

He looked up then, his eyes finding me on the floor. But there was no remorse in them. No concern. Only a blazing, white-hot fury. A fury directed entirely at me.

He rose to his full height, pulling a perfectly fine Isabel up with him, keeping her tucked protectively against his side. He glared down at me, his face a thunderous mask.

"Look what your jealousy has caused!" he snarled, his voice echoing in the stunned silence of the ballroom.

My mind couldn't process the words. *My jealousy?*

He took a deep, shuddering breath, puffing out his chest like a king pronouncing a decree. In front of his father, my friends, and the entire stunned elite of Veridia, he bellowed the words that would shatter my life forever.

"This engagement is over! I, Mark Landon, formally and publicly break my betrothal to Clara Ashford. I will not be bound to a woman so consumed by petty envy that she would cause harm to an innocent guest!"

The words were a physical blow. The spiritual and emotional agony hit me like a bolt of lightning. The fragile thread of hope, the bond I thought we shared, didn't just fray; it snapped. A searing pain erupted in my chest, so intense it stole my breath. It felt like a part of my soul was being ripped away.

The room spun. The faces of the crowd blurred into a grotesque mural of shock and pity. The tremors in my body intensified into violent shudders. The pain dropped me to my knees, a strangled cry tearing from my throat.

And through it all, I could see Mark. He was looking at Isabel, his expression softening as he brushed her cheek. He had destroyed me in front of the world, and all he cared about was her.