Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Watch Me Shine

"The Rhodes family crest will be hand-carved by a Michelin three-star chef."

The wedding planner, Mr. Price, gestured toward an illustration of an elaborate ice sculpture. His voice was slick with a practiced reverence that made Eve's stomach tighten.

Eve sat alone at the long, polished table in the Vera Wang VIP suite. Spread out before her was the album of wedding details she had once dreamed of.

And across from her, an empty velvet chair seemed to mock her.

It was where Augustine - her fiancé in name only - was supposed to sit.

Their marriage was a business deal. Her father's company had been on the verge of collapse; the Rhodes name and capital were its lifeline. In exchange, the Rhodes family gained a tie to the Clarkes' quiet, old-world influence.

She had always known it was not for love. But she had been naive enough to believe they could build something: respect, perhaps even tenderness.

For that hope, she had given up a scholarship to study in Europe, and had molded herself into the perfect, hollow shell of "Mrs. Rhodes."

"It looks perfect," Eve said, forcing a smile that felt brittle on her lips. "Let's go with that plan."

Mr. Price glanced at the Patek Philippe on his wrist. "Will Mr. Rhodes be joining us today? There are a few seating arrangements for the guests that require his personal confirmation."

Eve's fingers slid across the empty chat window on her phone, as if to cover something up.

She looked up and smiled. "He has an international conference call. He couldn't get away."

The lie was smooth, practiced.

"I can decide on the seating," she added, her voice quiet but steady.

A flicker of understanding - and something like pity - crossed Mr. Price's face before a professional smile masked it. "Of course. You are the lady of the house."

He said the words, but his hand quietly pushed a guest list marked "Top Priority" to the center of the table.

The message was clear: some decisions were above her pay grade.

Eve's gaze swept over the names - Vanderbilt, Rockefeller - and the weight of centuries of old money pressed down on her. The air in the room grew thin.

She took a slow breath and began. "The Astors at table three, with the Carnegies. They summer together."

She worked her way down the list, arranging everything flawlessly. Mr. Price's eyebrows rose in surprise.

Two hours later, everything was settled. Eve felt worn to the bone, her back and shoulders aching - yet the phone on the table might as well have been switched off; not a single call had come.

As if to talk herself out of hoping, she lit the screen once more.

After a long wait, a text finally arrived.

I'm busy. You decide.

Cold, efficient. A small, sharp pain pierced the numbness in her chest.

Blinking back the dimness in her eyes, she typed a reply: Okay, rest early.

Her thumb hovered over send. The sentence looked pathetic - like faking consideration only to earn his approval.

She deleted it.

OK.

She hit send.

Outside, the cool New York evening air struck her skin like a sobering slap. She dismissed the driver - she wanted to walk, to feel solid ground beneath her feet.

Fifth Avenue's glittering windows displayed jewels and gowns, each one a silent testament to a fantasy she was failing to live. She felt the ground drop away beneath her, dizzy, close to fainting.

She ducked into a small café, the warmth a brief comfort. Her phone buzzed. Her best friend, Chloe Hayes.

You okay, honey? Don't wear yourself out.

Eve replied with a smiley emoji. I'm fine. Everything's going smoothly.

She opened her news app and scrolled to the finance section. It was one of the few ways she tried to understand Augustine's world.

A push notification slid across the top of the screen. An entertainment headline.

Billionaire Augustine Rhodes, Wedding Imminent, Spotted with Mystery Blonde at Airport!

Her breath caught. It had to be a mistake. Clickbait.

She tapped the link.

The air left her lungs. Her blood turned to ice.

The photo was brutally clear. Augustine in the airport's VIP terminal, wearing the dark grey overcoat she had picked out for him that morning - but not the tie she had matched to it.

He was angled slightly, shielding the woman beside him from an imagined lens. His hand rested on the small of her back: a gesture of casual, confident possession.

The woman, a cascade of brilliant blonde hair, wore sunglasses, but her smile was radiant. She was pressed against his side, a perfect fit.

Eve recognized her at once. Bianca Cherry.

Augustine's childhood sweetheart - the bride the Rhodes family had always wanted for him.

The caption beneath the photo read: A source reveals Ms. Cherry's return may be to reclaim what was rightfully hers.

The warm café air grew thin, suffocating. A wave of dizziness washed over her. The phone slipped from her grasp and clattered onto the small table.

Heads turned. Eve noticed nothing. Her world had shrunk to that one damning photograph, and to the words: reclaim what was rightfully hers.

She scrambled to her feet, grabbed her purse and phone, and stumbled out of the café, desperate to escape the unseen eyes, the silent judgment.

She dialed Augustine's number.

This time it did not simply ring.

It was declined.

A second later, a text from him appeared.

Don't call.

Eve stood frozen on the crowded sidewalk, the city's vivid life blurring into noise and light. She was a clown in a tragedy only she was performing in.

She remembered their wedding, a year ago - the contract.

"Our marriage is a business arrangement," Augustine said coldly, his blue eyes as cold as a winter sky. "Don't have any expectations of me."

She had been so naive then, thinking she could melt the ice.

Now she understood. The ice was never meant to melt. His spring belonged to someone else.

Her phone rang again. The caller ID: Mrs. Davis - the old housekeeper of the Rhodes household.

Her hand trembled as she answered.

"Ma'am?" Mrs. Davis's voice was hesitant. "Will you be returning for dinner? Mr. Rhodes... he won't be coming home tonight either."