Jilted Bride: Marrying My Ex's Rival

Ding.

The screen of Isolde Gibson's phone lit up, cutting through the suffocating silence.

It wasn't an apology from her fiancé, who was currently an hour late to their wedding. It was a text from an unknown number.

Isolde opened it. It was a high-resolution photo of an ultrasound scan.

8 weeks pregnant.

The mother's name: Emilie Blackburn.

The father's name: Arland Rhodes-the billionaire heir Isolde had spent the last seven years loving.

The caption below the photo read: Did you see the news? Be smart and leave him alone. He's busy taking care of our baby today.

Isolde stared at the screen, and for a moment, the world simply stopped.

Seven years. The realization hit her like a physical blow, a jagged knife twisting deep into her chest. For seven years, she had molded herself into the perfect partner, swallowing her pride, enduring his coldness, and telling herself that his obsession with Emilie was just him honoring his dead sister's memory. She had thought today-their wedding day-would be the end of her waiting. Instead, it was the punchline to a cruel, sickening joke.

Her vision blurred, a sudden, agonizing burn pricking at the back of her eyes. Her fingers trembled so violently that the phone nearly slipped from her grasp. The sheer weight of the betrayal threatened to crush her lungs.

"Miss Gibson?"

The clerk behind the glass partition cleared her throat, her eyes darting to the empty space beside Isolde with thinly veiled pity. "Is Mr. Rhodes coming or not? We have a schedule."

Isolde squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the humiliating tears that threatened to spill. When she opened them a second later, the agonizing heartbreak was gone, replaced by a chilling, absolute clarity. The lovesick girl who had waited for seven years died in that very second.

She swiped away the ultrasound photo, only for a breaking news banner from Metropolis Daily to immediately pop up.

She tapped it. The photo was taken at JFK Airport less than an hour ago.

Arland Rhodes was in the center of the frame. He looked devastatingly handsome, his jaw set tight as he tenderly lifted a frail-looking Emilie Blackburn into a black limousine. Emilie's eyes were closed, but there was a triumphant, possessive ghost of a smile on her lips.

The headline screamed in bold, black letters: Rhodes Heir Abandons Wedding for Returning 'First Love'-Secret Pregnancy Rumored?

The air in the room seemed to vanish. But this time, Isolde didn't feel a blow to her stomach. She felt nothing but a wave of absolute, freezing disgust. He wasn't stuck in traffic. He wasn't in a meeting. He was at the airport, playing the hero to the woman who had tormented Isolde's relationship for years, while leaving his bride at the altar to become a national joke.

"Miss Gibson?" The clerk's voice grew sharper. "We can't hold the slot."

Isolde stood up. She didn't look like a woman who had just been broken. She looked like a queen stepping down from a ruined throne. She picked up her handbag, her movements slow and deliberate.

"No," Isolde said. Her voice was steady, terrifyingly calm. "He isn't coming. Cancel the appointment."

She turned and walked toward the exit. She didn't look back at the clerk, or the whispering couples, or the empty chair that should have held her husband.

Outside, the New York sky was a bruised shade of grey. A fine drizzle was falling, slicking the sidewalks with oil and grime. Isolde stepped out, the cold rain hitting her heated skin like tiny needles. She stood there for a moment, letting the water ruin the silk dress she had spent months selecting.

Her phone rang again.

Isolde looked at the caller ID. Mother.

She closed her eyes for a second, bracing herself, then answered.

"Did you see it?" Beatrice Gibson's voice was a shrill shriek that pierced Isolde's ear drum. "It's on every channel, Isolde! Every single channel! The Rhodes boy carrying that... that invalid at the airport!"

Isolde watched a yellow taxi splash through a puddle, the dirty water missing her white shoes by an inch. "I saw it."

"You are a humiliation," Beatrice hissed. "Seven years. You gave him seven years, and he leaves you at City Hall for the Blackburn girl? Do you know what this does to our stock prices? To our reputation?"

Isolde said nothing. There was nothing to say.

"The Stone family deal is still on the table," Beatrice continued, her tone shifting from anger to calculation. "Esequiel Stone is looking for a wife. He doesn't care about scandal; he needs a caretaker and a figurehead. Come back to the Capital."

Isolde stared at the grey skyline. The Rhodes Penthouse was visible in the distance, a glass needle piercing the clouds. It was where she lived. It was where she had built a life on a foundation of sand.

"I agree," Isolde said, her voice dropping to a freezing register. "In fact, send me the digital contract right now." Isolde opened her email, found the pending marriage agreement from the Stone family's legal team, and signed her name with a few swift strokes on her screen. She stood up, took the velvet box containing Arland's wedding band from her purse, and dropped it into a nearby trash can with a hollow thud.

Beatrice paused. The silence on the other end was heavy with shock. Beatrice was used to Isolde fighting, crying, begging for time. "You... agree? To marry the cripple? He's in a wheelchair, Isolde. He's half a man compared to Arland."

"I already signed it," Isolde repeated, her voice void of emotion. "Prepare the papers."

She hung up the phone.

Stepping off the curb, she hailed a passing yellow taxi.

"Where to, Miss?" the driver asked. He glanced at her rain-soaked white silk dress through the rearview mirror, a flicker of unspoken sympathy in his eyes.

Isolde met his gaze, her expression dead calm.

"The Rhodes Penthouse," she said.

She had exactly fifteen days before the Stone family jet arrived to take her to the Capital. Fifteen days to systematically dismantle seven years of a shared life.

Arland would undoubtedly come home tonight. He would walk through the door armed with his flawless excuses, fully expecting her to swallow her pride and forgive him, just like she always did.

Isolde leaned her head against the cold glass of the window, watching the city blur into streaks of grey.

Let him come.

She wasn't going back to wait for an apology. She was going back to pack.

The Rhodes Penthouse was dark when Arland finally came home.

It was 2:00 AM. The city lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows cast long, skeletal shadows across the living room floor. Isolde was sitting in a wingback chair facing the window, her silhouette rigid.

The digital lock beeped, and the heavy door swung open.

Arland walked in. He looked exhausted. His tie was loosened, hanging crookedly around his neck, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing as he kicked off his shoes.

He flipped on the light switch. The sudden brightness was blinding.

He jumped slightly when he saw her. "Isolde? Why are you sitting in the dark?"

He walked toward her, and the scent hit her before he even reached the chair. It was a mix of hospital antiseptic and heavy, cloying gardenia. Emilie's perfume. It was a scent that had haunted Isolde for years, clinging to his coats, his car, his skin.

Arland stopped a few feet away, frowning. He seemed to be bracing himself for a scream, a plate thrown, tears.

"Emilie had a panic attack at the airport," he said. His voice was rough, defensive. "She couldn't breathe. The paparazzi were swarming her. I had to get her out."

Isolde turned her head slowly to look at him. Her eyes were dry. There was no redness, no puffiness. Just a flat, dead calm that made Arland's breath catch. "It doesn't matter," she said, her voice slicing through the room with freezing precision. "If she's that fragile, you should have stayed at the hospital. Don't bring that cloying scent of illness into my space."

Arland froze. He blinked, confused. He had prepared a dozen excuses, a dozen logical reasons why his duty to the Blackburn family came first. He wasn't prepared for this icy dismissal.

"You... you do?" Arland asked, stepping closer. He looked relieved, but also slightly unsettled. "I knew you would. You're always so reasonable, Isolde. That's why I love you. I'll make it up to you. We can reschedule for next week."

He reached out, his hand open as if to rest on her shoulder, but stopped mid-air. He seemed to remember the invisible wall between them, the one he had never dared to cross, and let his hand fall back to his side.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. It wasn't a normal notification sound; it was a specific, urgent pattern.

Arland pulled his hand back instantly. He checked the screen, and his face tightened. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused alertness.

"I have to go back," he said, already turning away. "She's asking for me. She doesn't know where the medication is."

Isolde looked at his back. He was already moving toward the door, his body language tense, his priority clear.

"Go," Isolde said, looking at him as if he were a complete stranger. "Don't let me keep you from your patient."

Arland hesitated at the door. He looked back at her, a flicker of guilt crossing his handsome face. "I'll be back by morning. We'll have breakfast. Pancakes. Your favorite."

"Okay," she lied.

He nodded, satisfied, and walked out. The door clicked shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the empty apartment.

Isolde remained in the chair. She didn't cry. She simply looked at the space where he had been standing, realizing that the man she loved didn't exist. He was a figment of her imagination, a projection she had kept alive for seven years.

The man who had just left was a stranger. And she owed strangers nothing.

The doorbell rang at exactly 9:00 AM the next morning.

Isolde was already dressed. She was wearing a high-necked black blouse and trousers, her hair pulled back into a severe bun. She looked less like a fiancée and more like a widow.

She opened the door. Simon Vance, Arland's personal assistant, stood in the hallway. He looked impeccable in his grey suit, but his eyes betrayed him. He wouldn't meet her gaze.

"Good morning, Miss Gibson," Simon said, his voice practiced and polite. He held out a rectangular velvet box. "Mr. Rhodes sends his deepest apologies. He got tied up at the hospital."

Isolde looked at the box. She knew what was inside without opening it. Arland had a habit of solving emotional problems with mineral deposits.

"It's the limited edition Pink Diamond necklace," Simon added when she didn't move. "He had it flown in from Geneva."

"Take it back," Isolde said, not even glancing at the velvet box. "Tell Arland if he wants to apologize, he can wire cash. I don't accept shiny trinkets meant for pacifying pets."

Simon shifted his weight. He had expected her to ask where Arland was, or when he was coming home. Her lack of questions seemed to unnerve him. "Is there... is there a message you'd like me to convey to Mr. Rhodes?"

"No," Isolde said. "Have a good day."

She closed the door in his face.

She walked to the console table in the hallway. It was already cluttered with other "apology gifts" from the past year-a bracelet from when he missed her gallery opening, a pair of earrings from when he forgot their anniversary. She tossed the unopened pink diamond box onto the pile. It landed with a dull thud.

Her phone pinged.

Isolde pulled it from her pocket. It was a text from an unknown number, but she knew who it was.

It was a photo. A plastic hospital tray with a bowl of soup, the steam rising from it. In the corner of the frame, a man's hand was visible, resting on the bedsheet. Isolde recognized the watch on the wrist. It was Arland's.

The caption read: Arland stayed up all night to make this for me. He's so protective. He says the hospital food isn't good enough for my delicate stomach. - E

Isolde stared at the image. Arland couldn't boil water without burning it. He had never cooked for her. Not once. When she had the flu last winter, he had hired a nurse and slept in the guest room to avoid catching it.

She didn't reply. She deleted the message and blocked the number.

An hour later, Isolde arrived at St. Jude's Hospital.

She wasn't there for Arland. She had a standing appointment with a neurologist for the migraines that had been plaguing her for months-stress-induced, the doctor said.

She wore large sunglasses and a heavy scarf, keeping her head down as she navigated the sterile white corridors. The smell of disinfectant made her stomach churn.

As she approached the VIP wing, she heard shouting.

Isolde stopped. She knew that voice.

"I don't care about hospital policy!" Arland's voice boomed down the hallway. "She needs the private suite! The one with the garden view!"

Isolde stepped behind a large concrete pillar. She peered around the edge.

Arland was standing at the nurse's station, looming over a terrified head nurse. His face was red with anger, his hands slamming down on the counter.

"Mr. Rhodes, that suite is occupied by a heart transplant patient," the nurse stammered.

"Move them," Arland snapped. "Emilie needs peace and quiet. If you don't move them within the hour, I will pull the Rhodes family funding for this entire wing. Do you understand me?"

Behind him, Emilie Blackburn sat in a wheelchair. She looked pale, wrapped in a cashmere blanket, clutching Arland's sleeve with a fragile, trembling hand.

"Arland, don't," Emilie whispered, loud enough to be heard. "I don't want to be a burden."

Arland turned to her, his expression softening instantly. He knelt down, wrapping his arms around her. "You are never a burden, Em. I promised I'd take care of you. I won't let you stay in a standard room."

Isolde watched, her heart pounding against her ribs. It wasn't just the anger; it was the passion. He was fighting for Emilie. He was willing to be unreasonable, cruel, and tyrannical just to ensure she had a garden view.

For Isolde, he had merely sent an assistant with a diamond.

Suddenly, Emilie's eyes shifted. She looked past Arland's shoulder, directly at the pillar where Isolde was standing.

Isolde froze.

Emilie's eyes widened slightly. She saw her.

For a second, the mask of the frail invalid slipped. A small, smug smirk tugged at the corner of Emilie's mouth. She didn't alert Arland. Instead, she let out a weak, pitiful cough, her hand going to her chest.

"Arland..." she gasped.

Arland whipped back around, his attention solely on her. "I'm here. I'm here."

Isolde pulled out her phone. Her hands were steady now. She took a photo, but not out of heartbreak. It was evidence. She didn't stay for her appointment. She walked out, feeling the last invisible thread tying her to Arland snap.

Isolde walked out of the hospital, the automatic doors sliding open to the humid city air. She hailed a taxi.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"Home," Isolde said. She paused, then corrected herself. "No. Just drive."

She pulled out her phone and dialed a number she had saved under 'Emergency'.

"Metro Storage and Moving," a voice answered.

"I need a discreet pick-up for tomorrow morning," Isolde said, watching the city blur past the window. "Antique furniture. High value. I need it moved out before noon."

"We have a slot. Address?"

Isolde gave the address of the penthouse. As she hung up, she felt a strange sensation in her chest. The pain was still there, sharp and jagged, but beneath it was something else.

Clarity.

The morning news was playing on the flat-screen TV in Isolde's home office. The volume was low, a constant murmur beneath the sound of packing tape ripping off the roll.

Isolde was wrapping a Ming Dynasty vase in layers of bubble wrap. Her movements were precise, efficient. She was a professional restorer; she knew how to handle fragile things. She wished her own heart had been as easy to protect.

On the screen, Arland was standing at a podium. Flashes from cameras erupted like lightning storms around him.

"Mr. Rhodes! Mr. Rhodes! Is it true you abandoned your fiancée at City Hall?" a reporter shouted.

Arland leaned into the microphone. He looked authoritative, his suit crisp, his face unreadable. "The Rhodes family requests privacy at this time. Miss Blackburn is currently under our protection due to health concerns. Any harassment by the media will be met with immediate legal action."

He paused, scanning the crowd. "My priority is the well-being of those under my care."

He didn't mention Isolde's name. Not once. He didn't defend her honor. He didn't clarify that she wasn't the one who had walked away. He simply erased her from the narrative to shield Emilie.

Isolde picked up the remote and turned off the TV. The screen went black, swallowing his face.

"He protects what he values," she whispered to the empty room.

She placed the vase into a reinforced wooden crate.

The service elevator dinged. Three men in blue coveralls stepped out. They were quiet, professional movers she had hired privately.

"Take only the items marked with blue tape," Isolde instructed. "Use the service exit. Do not go through the lobby."

The men nodded and began to work.

Isolde watched as they dismantled her life. The antique armoire she had restored by hand. The collection of first-edition poetry books. The painting she had bought with her first paycheck.

As each item left, the penthouse felt larger, colder. But Isolde had a plan. For every item she removed, she replaced it with something generic from the storage closet.

She replaced the Ming vase with a cheap glass bowl. She replaced the first editions with coffee table books about architecture. She replaced the hand-woven Persian rug with a beige synthetic one.

But she didn't just remove the items. She meticulously opened her safe and extracted every single certificate of authenticity for the pieces she had restored for the Rhodes Collection. Without these certificates bearing her signature, Arland's multi-million dollar antique exhibition next week would be completely worthless. She packed the documents into her briefcase, a cold smile touching her lips.

Within three hours, the apartment looked fully furnished, but it was soulless. It looked like a hotel room. It looked like a place where nobody lived.

Her phone rang. It was Jc Brennan.

"Isolde," his voice was tight. "The equity transfer papers are ready. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I'll be there this afternoon," Isolde said. "Have the notary ready."

Arland came home early that evening, around 6:00 PM.

Isolde was sitting on the beige sofa, a book open in her lap. She wasn't reading. She was listening to the silence of the apartment, waiting.

The door opened. Arland walked in, loosening his tie. He looked less stressed than the night before, perhaps because he felt he had handled the media.

He stopped in the middle of the living room and frowned. He looked around, turning in a slow circle.

"It feels... different in here," he said.

Isolde's heart skipped a beat. She kept her eyes on the page. "Different how?"

"I don't know." Arland rubbed the back of his neck. His mind was still a whirlwind of hospital reports and Emilie's anxious calls; he scanned the room but didn't truly see it. "Quieter? Did you change the lighting?"

He didn't notice the missing antiques. He didn't notice that the soul of the room was gone. He only sensed a vague emptiness, a hollow echo that he couldn't place.

"I sent the rugs for cleaning," Isolde lied smoothly, inwardly mocking his sheer blindness. She turned a page. "And I rearranged some decor. "

Arland accepted the excuse immediately. He walked over and sat next to her, the sofa dipping under his weight. He tried to take her hand.

"About the press conference..." he started. "I had to stop the rumors. I couldn't let them attack Emilie while she's sick."

Isolde withdrew her hand under the pretense of turning another page. "You did what you had to do."

Arland sighed. He sounded frustrated by her distance, but relieved she wasn't screaming. He hated conflict. He hated when women were "hysterical."

"Your birthday is coming up," he said, trying to pivot to safer ground. "We'll do something big. A party. Just us and a few friends."

Isolde smiled. It was a cold, sharp curve of her lips that didn't reach her eyes. "Sure. That sounds nice."

He didn't remember that she hated parties. He didn't remember that she preferred quiet dinners.

"I'm going to take a shower," Arland said, standing up. "It's been a long day."

He left his phone on the coffee table.

Isolde watched him walk up the stairs. As soon as the bathroom door clicked shut, the phone on the table lit up.

A text message.

Dr. Monroe says I need bed rest for at least a week. It's so lonely here. Can you come read to me? - E

Isolde stared at the screen until it went dark. She didn't touch it. She didn't need to see any more.