Chapter 1

1.

After the fifth time the wedding was postponed by the fiancé.

I didn't scream at him like I usually did.

Instead, I called Manhattan's most exclusive moving company and had them box up every single one of my personal belongings.

Silently, thoroughly, I cut ties with the last five years of my life.

Day one, I called New York's top wedding planner and canceled the Lake Como ceremony we’d booked two years ago, the one he kept pushing back.

Day two, I logged into my Chase Bank account and unilaterally removed myself as the co-guarantor on the mortgage for his mother's Hamptons beach house.

I froze the joint trust account we used specifically to pay his family’s bills.

At the same time, I canceled the corporate credit card linked to his sister's Uber and high-end delivery apps.

Day three, I officially replied to the recruiter from his rival company, Vanguard Global. I accepted their offer for the Global VP of Public Relations position and started planning my move to their LA headquarters next month.

As I sat in first class on my way to LA to sign the contract, a flight attendant handed me a glass of champagne.

Staring out at the clouds, I couldn't help but find it ironic. I was even a little curious.

Without me, his invisible investor and all-in-one crisis PR manager for the past five years.

Without me, his "fiancée and partner" who believed in him unconditionally and provided an unlimited line of credit.

How was he, Julian Walker, the celebrated CEO making waves in Silicon Valley with his "self-made visionary" persona, going to maintain his mother's ridiculously expensive Hamptons house?

How was he going to deal with that insufferably vain sister of his?

And what would he use to please the "co-founder" he cherished so much, Vanessa Holt?

...

"Miss Serena, regarding the cancellation of the Lake Como wedding package, according to the exclusive contract we signed two years ago, we must retain thirty percent of the deposit as a penalty. If you confirm, please sign on this tablet."

Kelly, the planner, confirmed with me one last time before handing over the tablet and stylus, guiding me through the signature process.

She was young, but she’d seen it all working with Manhattan's executive class.

Right now, her exquisitely lined eyes were sparkling with unconcealed curiosity. She looked like she was bursting to say something.

I could see why.

We had booked this top-tier wedding package in this very same luxurious office two years ago. We’d gone through the hassle of finalizing flower shipments, chartering yachts, and even flying out for on-site rehearsals at least three times, only for it all to come to nothing.

To this day, the much-anticipated wedding never happened.

Instead, the bride was unilaterally canceling, willing to swallow a massive penalty fee.

Anyone would be curious about what happened between the couple Forbes once called the "power couple of the tech world."

But they didn't know.

It took me only one night to go from eagerly wanting to marry the man I'd been with for five years to calmly deciding to call it all off.

The reason I was done, the reason I couldn't even be bothered to shed a single tear, was an electronic receipt Julian had left in the inbox of our shared tablet.

Last week was our five-year anniversary.

I had canceled two international PR meetings a half-month in advance, hopefully hinting to Julian that I wanted a proper celebration, just the two of us.

After all, to help him through the toughest years of his startup, I had unhesitatingly turned down a spot at Stanford's Graduate School of Business.

To scrape together the bridge funding for his seed round, I had even missed my family's last Thanksgiving gathering before my father passed away.

That night, Julian glanced up from his Apple laptop, which was covered in lines of code. He casually pulled open a drawer and tossed an expiring discount voucher for a spa onto the kitchen island without even lifting an eyebrow.

"Serena, Series B funding is about to close. I really don't have time for all that ceremonial bullshit. I don't really know what you're into, anyway. You can probably use this spa package. Go relax, it's on me. And stop complaining that I don't spend time with you."

His tone was casual, but it cut like a dull knife.

But even then, I took a deep breath, tucked the wrinkled voucher into my planner, and didn't say a word of complaint.

I thought he was just genuinely overwhelmed by the fundraising.

Until last night. As I was organizing his financial statements in his study, I tripped over a vintage leather camera bag next to his solid wood desk.

With a crash, the heavy bag hit the hardwood floor, and the Leica M3 vintage camera inside shattered―the shutter curtain and lens were smashed to pieces.

It was an heirloom from my father, a classic 1954 model. I cherished it so much that I never even let the housekeepers touch it.

The loud crash got Julian's attention.

He rushed from the bedroom to the study. The first thing he did wasn't to check if I was cut by the glass, nor was it to bend down and look at the camera that meant the world to me.

Instead, he stared at the scattered fragments and flew into an unusually furious rage.

"Serena, are you really this pissed that I didn't celebrate our anniversary properly? Do you have to act like some neglected, bitter housewife and kick shit around everywhere?! Why can't you be more mature, like Vanessa, and think about the big picture for the company instead of always causing trouble for me!"

Before I could even get a word of explanation out, Julian roughly told me to get the hell out of the study.

I stood in the cold hallway for a long time, subconsciously apologizing over and over, only to be met with the sound of him slamming and locking the study door.

The next morning, I carefully collected the camera's remains and took them to a professional repair shop in Manhattan for a repair estimate.

When I got home, I casually opened the tablet Julian and I shared.

As I was about to clear the cache, I accidentally clicked on his personal email inbox.

At the very top was a purchase confirmation, staring me in the face.

The sender: one of New York's most prestigious auction houses.

The item: a 1963 Rolex Ref. 1601 Datejust vintage watch.

The price: $18,888.

The recipient: Vanessa Holt.

The most glaring part was the message Julian himself had typed in the notes section:

I spent months tracking this watch down for you at auction. You only mentioned it once, but I never forgot. To my amazing co-founder, you deserve the best in the world.

The email was sent on the afternoon of our five-year anniversary.

At first glance, it might seem like just a note of appreciation for a "work partner."

But I felt like I'd been hit in the face with a glass of ice-cold lemonade. My eyes stung, and my stomach churned.

The priceless Leica my father left me, which the shop quoted three thousand dollars to repair, he wouldn't even bend down to look at. He even accused me of being unreasonable.

But an antique watch Vanessa mentioned once, offhandedly? He remembered it for months and dropped nearly twenty thousand dollars without blinking, telling her with deep affection that she deserved the best in the world.

That kind of attention, that kind of special treatment.

I, his fiancée who had been with him from nothing to the verge of ringing the opening bell, who had given him everything and even sacrificed my own future, had never experienced it.

These five years were nothing but a hollow American dream I had woven for myself.

Now, it was time to wake up. And time to settle the accounts.