Too Late For Your Second Chance

My fiancé, Bentley Wise, heir to a New York real estate empire, promised we'd marry in 99 days. But after he saved a socialite, Frida Tanner, from a landslide, he spent those days repaying her "kindness," abandoning me at every turn.

When Frida, driving distracted, killed my mother in a car crash, Bentley defended her at the funeral. "It was an accident, Adelle. You're causing a scene."

He shielded my mother's killer, pushed me to the ground, and chose her over our ten years of love.

Lying on the floor of the chapel, I watched him comfort the woman who destroyed my life. I knew then that our love was dead.

I exposed their crimes online and fled to Paris to start over.

But just as I found new love and a new life, Bentley appeared, begging for a second chance. "I'm so sorry, Adelle. Please, just come back to me."

I refused, telling him I was with someone else. That night, Frida's mother, seeking revenge, had me kidnapped and left for dead.

Bentley sacrificed himself to save me, taking the blows meant for me. As he lay bleeding, he pleaded, "Give me another chance. I'll do anything."

I looked at the man who had destroyed me, then saved me, and said, "I have a new life now, Bentley. A life you have no part in."

Chapter 1

My wedding dress, a cascade of ivory silk, hung in my small apartment, a beacon of a future that had burned brighter than any star for ten long years. Bentley Wise, the heir to a New York real estate empire, was supposed to be my forever. I, Adelle Molina, a working-class artist, had believed in our love, believed it could conquer anything.

Every morning, I traced the numbers on the countdown calendar he' d given me, the one promising our wedding in 99 days. Each passing day was a step closer to the dream, a dream that now felt like a cruel joke.

It all started on a hiking trip.

The sun had been warm on my face as Bentley pulled me up the winding path. We were laughing, hand in hand, the city a distant hum beneath us. Then the earth itself screamed. The ground beneath our feet ripped open, a torrent of mud and rock cascading down the slope. Fear seized my throat, but Bentley, my Bentley, was there. He strong-armed me, pushing me clear of a falling tree.

Then I saw her. Frida Tanner, a socialite from a family as powerful as Bentley' s, caught in the path of the slide. Her face was a mask of terror. Without hesitation, Bentley lunged, pulling her to safety just as the ground gave way where she had stood. He saved us both. He was my hero.

Later, in the sterile waiting room of the emergency clinic, Frida clutched Bentley's hand, her voice a theatrical whisper. "You saved my life, Bentley. I owe you everything." Her eyes, however, flickered to me, a glint of something I couldn' t quite decipher. It sent a chill down my spine.

Bentley' s father, a man whose presence could curdle milk, had called him the next day. I heard snippets of the conversation, sharp and cold. "The Tanner family is crucial to our upcoming city project, son. Frida's well-being is paramount. A 'repayment of kindness' is expected." It wasn't a request; it was an order.

Bentley had returned to me, his face drawn. He held out the small, elegant countdown calendar. "Ninety-nine days, Adelle," he said, his voice softer than usual. "Ninety-nine days to repay Frida, to ensure our families' alliance. Then, we get married. I promise." His eyes pleaded with me to understand. I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him.

I took the calendar, its polished surface cool against my fingertips. I nodded, a tight smile on my face. "Okay," I whispered, the word tasting like ash. "Ninety-nine days." I told myself it was a small price to pay for our future. I told myself it would pass quickly.

I was so wrong.

Those ninety-nine days became a slow-motion nightmare. Bentley was consumed by his "repayment." Dinners we' d planned for months were canceled with a curt text message. My calls went unanswered. When he did call, it was often to say he was with Frida, helping her redecorate her penthouse, accompanying her to some charity gala. Each mention of her name felt like a tiny cut.

The worst came after my appendectomy. The surgery had been more complicated than expected, leaving me weak and in pain. I woke up alone in the hospital room, a vase of generic flowers my only companion. I tried to call Bentley. No answer. I called again. Still nothing. My phone finally died in my trembling hand. I later learned he had been at a 'recovery party' for Frida, who had apparently suffered immense emotional trauma from the landslide. My own physical pain felt secondary to the ache of abandonment. The nurse, a kind woman named Maria, held my hand and told me I was strong. I just felt broken.

Then came the kidnapping. Bentley's father's business rivals, a desperate bunch, had mistaken me for Frida. They had taken me from my small studio, rough hands over my mouth, the scent of stale cigarettes and fear filling my nostrils. I was dragged into an abandoned warehouse, the cold concrete floor biting into my skin. They demanded information I didn't have, threatening me with a rusty knife. I fought, I screamed, I begged. I even called Bentley' s name, a desperate plea into the void. The knife slipped, a searing pain across my arm. I thought I was going to die. When the police finally stormed in, it wasn't Bentley who found me, but a patrol officer. His face was grim. Bentley had been unreachable, comforting Frida over a bad dream she'd had.

I lay in the hospital bed again, a bandage wrapped around my bleeding arm, a new scar etched into my skin, both visible and invisible. He visited me for an hour, his eyes distant, his apologies hollow words that meant nothing. He said he was sorry, that Frida had needed him. He said I was safe now. But I wasn't. I was dying inside.

Then, my mother. My kind, hardworking mother, whose food truck was a beacon of warmth and good food in our neighborhood. She was rushing home from a long shift, tired but happy, planning to make my favorite soup. Frida, meanwhile, had been speeding through a residential area, late for a fitting. She had been distracted, on her phone, arguing with a friend. She ran a red light.

My mother's truck, bright yellow with its hand-painted daisies, was T-boned. The impact was horrific.

The hospital corridors smelled of antiseptic and despair. The doctor's words blurred into a monotone hum. "We did everything we could, Adelle. I'm so sorry." My mother, my vibrant, loving mother, was gone. Just like that.

A kind-faced nurse, noticing my blank stare, had gently told me, "The other driver, Ms. Tanner, she's okay. A few minor bruises. She was on her phone, they said. Ran the light." The words hit me like a physical blow. Frida. It was Frida. Again.

I tried to call Bentley. My fingers fumbled, keying in his number, desperate for comfort, for anger, for something. It rang and rang, then went straight to voicemail. Again. Always voicemail. I threw the phone across the room, watching it shatter against the sterile white wall. A guttural cry ripped from my throat, raw and uncontrolled. My mother was gone because of her, because of him.

The funeral was a blur of black suits and whispered condolences. I moved through it like a ghost, my heart a hollow space in my chest. Then, I saw them. Bentley, impeccably dressed, a somber expression on his face. And beside him, Frida, pale and fragile, clinging to his arm. She wore a delicate black veil, as if she were the grieving one. My vision swam with red.

My feet moved on their own, carrying me towards them. "You!" I shrieked, my voice cracking, raw with grief and rage. I lunged at Frida, my hands reaching, wanting to tear at her, to make her feel an ounce of the pain she had inflicted. "You killed her! You killed my mother!"

Bentley reacted instantly. He caught my wrists, his grip like iron. "Adelle! Stop this! This is a funeral!" His eyes, usually so soft, were hard and accusing. He pushed me back, away from Frida, who was now cowering behind him, making soft, whimpering sounds.

"She killed Mama!" I sobbed, struggling against his hold, my eyes burning into his. "She was on her phone! She ran the light!"

Bentley' s face hardened further. "It was an accident, Adelle. A tragic accident. Everyone knows Frida would never intentionally hurt anyone." He shielded Frida with his body, his words a cold, cruel dismissal of my agony. "You're clearly not thinking straight. You're causing a scene. You need to calm down."

My breath hitched. Calm down? My mother was dead, and he was defending the woman who killed her. The man I loved for ten years, the man who was supposed to marry me in a few short days, was protecting her. It was then, standing over my mother' s casket, feeling the cold disdain in Bentley' s eyes, that something inside me shattered irrevocably.

No. This wasn' t an accident. This was the consequence of his choices, his neglect, his unwavering loyalty to a manipulative socialite. The love I had painstakingly built, brick by brick, over a decade, crumbled into dust.

"You fool," I whispered, the words barely audible. "She told me. She told me she hated me, Adelle. She admitted she was distracted. She laughed about it. And you... you knew. You knew what she was capable of."

His forehead creased in confusion, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "What are you talking about? Frida would never-"

"You're defending her?" My voice rose, raw and ragged. "After everything? After my surgery, after I was stabbed, after my mother was killed because of her negligence? And you still defend her?" I felt a terrifying clarity wash over me. "No, Bentley. This isn't an accident. This is what you allowed to happen."

He took a step back, his face pale. "Adelle, you're not making sense. This isn't the time or place for this. You're unhinged." He reached out, not to comfort me, but to try and silence me. He thought I was hysterical. He thought I was weak.

"Unhinged?" I laughed, a harsh, broken sound that echoed in the quiet chapel. "You built this, Bentley. You stood by and watched as she tore my life apart. You pushed me away, piece by piece, until there was nothing left." My heart felt like it was being ripped from my chest, but this time, it wasn't just pain. It was defiance. "I'll make sure justice is served, Bentley. Legally. For my mother."

His eyes narrowed, a glint of the ruthless businessman I sometimes saw in his father. "You think you can fight my family, Adelle? You think you have a chance against the Tanner family? You have nothing." He scoffed, a sneer twisting his lips. "You're a working-class artist. You have no idea how this world works." He raised his hand, not to strike, but to emphasize his point, and shoved me back.

I stumbled, my weak legs giving way, sending me crashing to the polished floor. The sharp impact of my head against the marble sent stars dancing behind my eyes. A jolt of pain shot through me, but it was nothing compared to the agony in my soul. I stared up at him, my vision blurred by unshed tears, and saw the man I loved, standing over me, protecting my mother's killer.

He had promised my mother, years ago, when we first started dating, that he would always take care of me. That he would never let anything happen to me. Now, he was the one hurting me. He was the one letting everything happen.

A strange, bitter laugh bubbled up from deep within me. It wasn't a laugh of joy, but of complete, utter despair. A laugh that acknowledged the cruel, twisted irony of it all. "You think I'm weak, Bentley?" I croaked, pushing myself up despite the throbbing in my head. "You think I can't fight?"

He looked at me with a condescending pity, mistaking my broken laughter for resignation. "Adelle, please. Let's not make this worse. You're upset. We can talk about this later, when you're thinking clearly. Just go home." He even offered me a hand, a gesture that felt like a final insult.

I recoiled as if burned. "Go home?" My voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a decade of shattered dreams. "There is no 'home' with you, Bentley. Not anymore. I'm done. We're done."

Just then, Frida whimpered, clutching Bentley's arm tighter. "Bentley, I'm scared. She's crazy."

Bentley immediately turned his full attention to her, his hand gently stroking her hair. "It's okay, angel. I'm here. She won't hurt you." He pulled her close, murmuring reassurances. His back was to me, a solid wall between us, a stark symbol of his priorities. He held her like she was the most precious thing in the world, while I lay broken on the floor.

Watching him comfort her, my mother a few feet away in her coffin, the reality hit me with the force of a tidal wave. He had chosen. He had always chosen her. The Parisian scholarship I'd secretly applied for, the one I'd dismissed as a pipe dream, suddenly felt like my only escape. My only salvation. My mother's memory, her vibrant spirit, demanded more than quiet suffering. It demanded justice. And I would get it.

I pushed myself up, my legs trembling, but my resolve as strong as steel. "You'll regret this, Bentley Wise," I vowed to his retreating back, my voice barely a whisper filled with a promise of retribution. "You'll regret this more than anything." I turned, ignoring the stares, ignoring the pain, and walked away from the funeral, away from Bentley, away from ten years of my life. My new life began now. And I would make sure he knew exactly what he lost.

The echoes of my own declaration, "You'll regret this more than anything," still rang in my ears as I left that hollow place. Bentley had chosen his path, and now I would choose mine. The first step was putting distance between us, a chasm so wide he could never cross it again. I needed to move fast. My scholarship to study art in Paris, once a distant dream, was now my life raft.

My body ached with every step, a map of all the harm I had endured. My head throbbed from the fall, my arm still bandaged from the stabbing, and my chest felt heavy with a grief that words couldn't touch. But beneath the pain, a fierce resolve burned.

The admissions office for the Paris scholarship program was thankfully efficient. I filled out forms with a hand that still trembled slightly, my face pale and drawn. The administrator, a kind-faced woman who reminded me faintly of my mother, looked at my bandaged arm with concern. "My dear, are you alright?" she asked, her voice soft. "You look as if you've been through a war."

Her words were a stark contrast to Bentley' s cold dismissal. A memory flashed of a time, years ago, when I' d gotten a paper cut while studying. Bentley had fussed over me for an hour, treating the tiny wound like a major injury, his eyes wide with worry. Now, after actual surgeries, after being stabbed, after my mother's death, he couldn't even pretend to care. The thought was a bitter pill.

I simply shook my head, avoiding her gaze. "I'm fine. Just... a rough patch. I just need to get these papers done." I focused on the task, pouring all my fractured energy into completing the paperwork. This was my escape.

She looked hesitant, then asked, "And your fiancé? Does he approve of you leaving the country for this opportunity?" The question hung in the air, thick with unspoken assumptions.

My mind drifted back to countless arguments, hushed and tense, about my career. "Paris? Adelle, that's so far. We're building a life here. My life. Our life." He hadn't wanted me to go, not really. He wanted me close, under his thumb, a beautiful accessory to his empire. He wanted me to be his talented artist, but only on his terms. He never saw my art as my own path, only as a hobby he could indulge me in.

I managed a tight smile. "He doesn't have a say anymore," I said, the words feeling like a balm on my wounded soul.

Just as I finished signing the last document, my old phone, the one I hadn't yet replaced, buzzed. A message from an unknown number. My stomach clenched. It was Frida.

The message contained a photo. It was Bentley, laughing, his arm draped possessively around Frida's shoulder. They were at some exclusive restaurant, their faces glowing with a sickening intimacy. The caption beneath it read: "He's all mine now, Adelle. Didn't you know? You're old news."

My breath caught in my throat. A wave of nausea washed over me, hot and suffocating. My hand flew to my chest, a desperate attempt to quell the rising panic. She knew. She knew I was here, trying to escape. She was twisting the knife, enjoying every second of my pain.

My eyes burned, but I refused to cry. Not for them. I looked at the timestamp on the photo. It was taken barely an hour ago, while I was dealing with the scholarship. She had orchestrated this, timed it perfectly to send it to me right when I was making my exit. Her malice was a tangible thing, a venom seeping into my already bruised heart.

I closed my eyes for a long moment, forcing myself to breathe. This is it, Adelle. This is what you're leaving behind. The anger, sharp and purifying, replaced the hurt. I knew what I needed to do. I knew what was truly important now. My future. My peace. And my mother's justice.

"Everything is in order, Adelle," the administrator said, handing me a thick envelope. "Your flight is booked for tomorrow morning. We've arranged everything."

"Thank you," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. My resolve had cemented into something hard and unyielding.

I returned to the empty house, the one Bentley and I had shared, the one that now felt like a tomb. The air still carried the faint scent of my mother's cooking, a cruel reminder. I remembered the small makeshift sterile room she'd had set up at the back of her food truck that Frida had destroyed. A constant reminder of the accident. It had already been torn down by Bentley's staff, leaving a gaping, desolate space. My heart constricted.

I found the housekeeper, Mrs. Green, a kind woman who had worked for Bentley's family for decades. "Mrs. Green," I said, my voice soft but firm. "I need to see the security footage from Mama's truck. From the day of the accident."

Her eyes widened, but she nodded slowly, her lips pressed into a thin line. She led me to a small office, the screen flickering to life. Time melted away as I watched the grainy footage. And there it was. Not just Frida's car speeding, not just her phone to her ear. But a split second before impact, she had swerved slightly, a deliberate, almost imperceptible movement, as if trying to catch the truck's corner, not avoid it. Her face, caught in the camera's wide-angle lens, held a fleeting, malicious smirk. It wasn't an accident. Not entirely. It was intentional.

My hand tightened around my phone. My whole body trembled with a cold, righteous fury. I discreetly recorded the relevant clips, my jaw clenched so tight it ached. This was her smug confession, preserved forever. This was my proof.

I walked back to my bedroom, the silence suffocating. My eyes landed on the countdown calendar, still hanging on the wall. Ninety-nine days. It mocked me, a monument to a love that had become a battlefield. I reached for it, my fingers brushing against the cardboard. With a decisive yank, I ripped it from the wall, the sound a sharp tear in the silence. It fell to the floor, a broken symbol of a broken promise. I stared at it for a moment, then, with a profound sense of finality, kicked it into the waste bin.

It was time to pack.

I pulled out my worn suitcase, the one I' d used for art school, and began to fold clothes, to separate my life into 'before Bentley' and 'after Bentley.' I was almost done when the door burst open.

"Adelle!" Bentley stood there, his eyes wide. He gestured to the crumpled calendar in the bin. "What's this? Did it fall?" He walked over, picking it up, his brow furrowed with concern, as if a piece of cardboard was the most pressing issue.

"No," I answered, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I threw it away."

His gaze sharpened, moving from the calendar to my open suitcase, then to the clothes neatly folded inside. "What are you doing?" he demanded, a note of rising panic in his voice. "Where are you going?"

I zipped up the suitcase with a sharp click. "I'm moving out, Bentley."

His eyes flashed, a storm gathering. "Moving out? What is this, Adelle? Another one of your dramatic stunts? Are you going to run back to that tiny apartment of yours and play the victim again?" He strode over, his hand sweeping across my neatly folded pile of clothes, sending them scattering across the floor. "This is childish! You're throwing a tantrum!"

I watched my clothes tumble, my carefully constructed order dissolving into chaos, much like my life had. A pang of something, not quite sadness, but a dull ache of memory, twisted in my gut. He never understood. He never saw my pain. He only saw inconvenience.

"I'm not throwing a tantrum, Bentley," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "I am leaving."

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine! You want money? Is that it? How much? A new studio? A gallery show? Just name your price, Adelle. Don't be ridiculous." He pulled out his phone, ready to transfer funds, as if money could fix the gaping wound in my soul.

My jaw dropped. Was that truly all he thought I was worth? All our ten years, all my sacrifices, all my pain, reduced to a transaction? The absurdity of it made me want to scream, to laugh, to cry all at once.

He didn't wait for my answer. He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. "Come on. You're exhausted. You're grieving. You're not thinking straight. Let's go. We'll talk about this when you're lucid." He began to pull me towards the door, his strength overwhelming. He wasn't asking. He was commanding. And in that moment, I knew I had to escape him, not just physically, but entirely.

The car hummed, a low, oppressive drone that filled the silence between us. Bentley's grip on my arm had eased once I was buckled into the passenger seat, but the tension in the space between us was a living thing, thick and suffocating. I stared out the window, watching the familiar New York skyline blur past, each skyscraper a monument to his family's power, and a testament to how far out of my league I always had been.

I remembered countless car rides with Bentley, long before this. His hand would always be on my thigh, his thumb gently stroking. We'd talk for hours about our dreams, about our future, about the small art gallery we would open together. He would tell me how much he loved my art, how he believed in me. His words had been a lifeline, a promise. Now, his seatbelt was the only barrier between us, but it felt like an ocean.

The shift had been gradual, almost imperceptible at first. A subtle coolness in his tone, a hurried glance at his phone, a preoccupied air. I could pinpoint the exact moment of its acceleration: the day Frida Tanner entered the picture again, demanding her "repayment of kindness." That day, the light in his eyes for me had dimmed, replaced by a flicker of obligation and an almost desperate need to please her, to appease his father.

I recalled the cold terror of waking up alone after my surgery, my body wracked with pain, my calls to him unanswered. Or the horrific hours of the kidnapping, bleeding and terrified, screaming his name, only to learn he was with Frida, nursing her through a minor emotional upset. Each time, he had been absent. Each time, he had chosen her.

He would come back to me afterwards, sometimes with flowers, sometimes with empty apologies. He'd bring back trinkets from lavish events with Frida, a silk scarf, a fancy dessert, as if these small gestures could fill the growing void. I had questioned him, softly at first, then with a growing desperation. "Bentley, why do you spend so much time with her? We're getting married." He'd always had the same answer, a practiced refrain: "It's for my family, Adelle. It's for us. It's just for ninety-nine days. A repayment of kindness." The phrase was a dagger, twisting deeper with each repetition.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed. A bright, cheerful ringtone I didn't recognize. He glanced at the screen, a soft smile spreading across his face. "Frida?" he said, his voice instantly warm, tender. "Everything okay, angel? I'm on my way."

My stomach lurched. The car, which had been heading towards my old apartment, suddenly swerved. He made a sharp U-turn, heading in a completely different direction. The smile never left his face as he murmured into the phone, "Almost there, darling." He sounded genuinely happy.

The silence returned, heavier this time, laden with his blatant disregard for me. He was oblivious to my pain, lost in his own little world with Frida. My heart was a stone in my chest.

The car pulled to a smooth stop outside a sprawling, opulent complex, wrought iron gates gleaming under the afternoon sun. I recognized it instantly: the Tanner family estate. A beacon of wealth and power, a world I could never truly belong to.

And there she was, standing on the manicured lawn, dressed in a flowing silk dress, her hair perfectly coiffed. Frida. Her eyes, bright and expectant, landed on Bentley.

A sharp, searing pain shot through my chest, a physical manifestation of the betrayal. It felt like my very soul was being ripped in two.

Bentley turned to me, his face devoid of warmth. "Get out, Adelle." His voice was flat, a command, not a request.

I didn't move. My hands were clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms. He sighed, an impatient sound, and reached across me. His hand clamped around my arm, pulling. "I said, get out." He yanked me, hard, and my head struck the door frame as I stumbled out onto the curb. I gasped, the sharp pain momentarily eclipsing the emotional agony.

He didn't even look back at me. He was already out of the car, rushing around to the passenger side, opening the door for Frida. She practically melted into his embrace, her soft murmurs of complaint dying in his arms. He carefully settled her into the seat I had just occupied, murmuring reassurances. He buckled her in.

It was almost comical in its cruel repetition. He always pulled me out, rough and dismissive, and then carefully, tenderly, placed her in my spot. I remembered the early days, when he'd opened the passenger door for me, a chivalrous gesture I adored. He'd said, "This is your seat, Adelle. Always." The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth.

I laughed then, a dry, humorless sound. My seat. Always. What a joke.

The car sped off, leaving me standing alone on the curb, the Tanner estate looming behind me, a symbol of my utter insignificance. They were headed to a charity auction, I realized, another one of their exclusive elite events. I was just an inconvenient detour.

Bentley appeared at my side an hour later, pulling me into the lavish auction hall, the air thick with the scent of money and expensive perfume. "Adelle," he whispered, his voice low, as if trying to placate a child. "Pick anything you want. Anything at all. It's yours." He squeezed my hand, a shallow attempt at affection.

I remembered a time when he would surprise me with a canvas I'd admired, or a new set of paints. His gifts then had been thoughtful, born of true affection. Now, it was just an empty gesture, a hollow promise.

Just then, I overheard a hushed conversation between two women in shimmering gowns. "Did you hear? Bentley Wise spent a fortune last week on that antique brooch for Frida. And the week before, it was that rare sculpture." My blood ran cold. He bought her expensive gifts regularly. Not just for this "repayment of kindness." This was different. This was more.

I felt a profound sense of utter foolishness wash over me. I had been so naive, so blind.

The auctioneer's voice boomed, calling out bids. My eyes swept across the stage, landing on a small, glittering pendant, insignificant amidst the grand artwork. "That one," I said, pointing vaguely.

Bentley raised his paddle instantly. "Fifty thousand!" The auctioneer barely paused. "Sold to Mr. Wise!"

He picked it up, a triumphant smile on his face. "Here, my love. For you." He offered it to me.

But before I could even touch it, Frida, who had appeared out of nowhere, her eyes wide and innocent, reached out and brushed against it. "Oh, Bentley, it's exquisite! Is it for me?"

Bentley's smile didn't waver. He turned to her, the pendant now forgotten in my direction. "Of course, my angel. Anything you desire." He handed it to her, his fingers lingering on hers. "Adelle, I'll buy you something else, something even better, I promise."

Frida beamed, her eyes sparkling. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, darling. You're the best."

My heart didn't just ache; it felt as if it were being torn into shreds, ripped apart by a thousand invisible blades. It was a pain so profound, so absolute, it made my previous wounds feel like distant scratches.

"Adelle? Are you going to pick something else?" Bentley asked, his voice laced with impatience. He didn't even notice my agony.

I tried again. And again. Each time, Frida would express admiration, and each time, Bentley would bestow my chosen item upon her, promising me something "better" later. The cycle was sickening.

"Honestly, who is that woman?" I heard a whisper from a nearby table. "She looks like a beggar Bentley picked up from the street. So out of place next to the lovely Frida Tanner." The words, meant to insult me, were like a splash of cold water, solidifying my resolve. The class disparity, the social expectation, the sheer cruelty of it all was overwhelming. My nails dug into my palms, leaving crescent-shaped indents.

Finally, I shook my head. "No," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I don't want anything."

Bentley's face clouded with irritation. "Adelle, don't be childish. I'm trying to be generous. Don't spoil this." His voice was low, but edged with a familiar threat. "I've sacrificed so much for you, Adelle. My family's reputation, my time. Don't you see what I'm doing?"

My head snapped up. Sacrifice? He was talking about sacrifice? After what he' d put me through? After what he' d allowed to happen to my mother? The sheer audacity of his words stole my breath. It was beyond cruel; it was an insult to my very existence.

"I can't do this anymore, Bentley," I said, my voice rising, trembling slightly. My vision swam, but this time, it wasn't tears of sadness. It was rage. "I' m done. We're done. I'm leaving." I had wanted to say it. Now, it was out.