Chapter 2

2.

The scene of Denton’s public humiliation played on a loop in my mind for a full twenty-four hours.

Every detail was seared into my memory with bloody clarity.

The Hamptons Beach Club, the charity gala. The champagne tower reflecting the Atlantic sunset, the air thick with the smell of sea salt and old money.

Every major New York family was there―Vanderbilts, Rockefellers, Astors, Morgans. Women wore their ancestral jewels while men discussed their fund returns.

And I, Seraphina Rockefeller, stood in the center of it all, turned into the evening's entertainment.

"Seraphina, why do you have to make me say this in front of everyone?"

Denton let go of Evelyn's hand, swirling the crystal glass between his fingers. He had worn a custom Tom Ford suit, specifically to look sharp for the cameras.

His new love clung to his side in a Reformation dress―that brand that preached "sustainable fashion" to the masses. Among a sea of haute couture, her calculated simplicity was the most ostentatious statement of all.

"We've discussed this a hundred times," Denton's voice boomed through the microphone. "Our engagement was just a family arrangement. I don't love you. I never have."

A snicker came from a corner. One of the Astor cousins whispered, "The Rockefeller princess finally falls off her throne."

I clenched the fabric of my dress, the champagne-colored silk wrinkling in my fist.

Four years. I spent four years believing his late-night calls, his lingering touches, his promises of "I never let anyone else get this close" weren't just a game.

"If you don't love me," my voice trembled, but I refused to cry, "then why did you kiss me on the night of my graduation party?"

A collective gasp went through the crowd. A dozen phone cameras swiveled to face us.

Denton's brow furrowed, his signature sign of irritation. "You were drunk. You threw yourself at me."

"But you kissed me back." A tear finally escaped, but I kept my chin high. "For all these years, you never had anyone else―"

"Because I hadn't met the right person," he cut me off, turning to take Evelyn's hand. "But now I have."

He dropped to one knee.

The entire terrace went silent. Even the ocean breeze seemed to hold its breath.

"Evelyn Miller," his voice was so tender it made me sick, "will you marry me?"

The girl covered her mouth, tears streaming down her face―a perfect, well-rehearsed reaction.

"I will," she choked out.

The crowd erupted in applause and whistles. Champagne corks popped, foam spraying into the air.

And I stood there, a forgotten piece of scenery.

Denton stood up, wrapping Evelyn in a passionate kiss as camera flashes lit them up like a constellation.

Tomorrow, Page Six would run that photo on its front page. The headline would be: "VANDERBILT HEIR'S DECLARATION OF TRUE LOVE: COMMONER ARTIST BEATS ROCKEFELLER HEIRESS."

I closed my eyes, remembering that night four years ago.

The graduation party at our Hamptons estate, both of us drunk on champagne. He had pinned me against the wall, his breath hot against my ear as he whispered, "Sera, you'll always be mine."

In that moment, I thought I had finally won.

Now I understood―it was just another rich boy's drunken game.

And I had been his fool for four long years.