Tomorrow, I, Ethan Reed, was set to marry Isabelle Davenport, the exquisite old-money bride who promised a future of prestige and endless possibilities. Our lavish rehearsal dinner glowed with anticipation, my parents beaming with pride as their "new money" son married into established aristocracy. Then, a chilling phone call shattered everything. "I'm pregnant, Ethan," Isabelle whispered, "It's Liam's." My world tilted, instantly replaced by a wave of nausea and disbelief. She didn't stop there. Isabelle demanded I postpone the wedding indefinitely, quit my career to support them, and even insisted their relationship be openly acknowledged, with Liam, her step-brother and the baby's father, moving into our condo. The next indignity: she had my belongings, including my beloved grandmother's irreplaceable quilt, dumped on the curb, then maliciously desecrated the quilt itself with cigarette burns. The final blow came when Liam staged a pathetic suicide attempt, and Isabelle, her eyes blazing, tried to force me to apologize, even offering me a letter opener to "understand his pain" by cutting myself. How could the woman I loved be so utterly manipulative, so cruelly deluded? My future, meticulously planned, lay in toxic ruins. But amidst the devastation, a memory resurfaced, a lifeline in the darkness. Today was my 30th birthday. And a childhood pact with my best friend, Chloe: "If you hit the big three-oh still single, Ethan Reed, you're mine. We marry each other. Deal?" Just as I stood broken, she appeared, the small gift in her hand, her eyes clear and steady. "A deal's a deal, Ethan," she said, cutting through the ash of my ruined life. "Marry me, Ethan. In three days. I'll handle everything."
Tomorrow, I, Ethan Reed, was set to marry Isabelle Davenport, the exquisite old-money bride who promised a future of prestige and endless possibilities.
Our lavish rehearsal dinner glowed with anticipation, my parents beaming with pride as their "new money" son married into established aristocracy.
Then, a chilling phone call shattered everything.
"I'm pregnant, Ethan," Isabelle whispered, "It's Liam's."
My world tilted, instantly replaced by a wave of nausea and disbelief.
She didn't stop there.
Isabelle demanded I postpone the wedding indefinitely, quit my career to support them, and even insisted their relationship be openly acknowledged, with Liam, her step-brother and the baby's father, moving into our condo.
The next indignity: she had my belongings, including my beloved grandmother's irreplaceable quilt, dumped on the curb, then maliciously desecrated the quilt itself with cigarette burns.
The final blow came when Liam staged a pathetic suicide attempt, and Isabelle, her eyes blazing, tried to force me to apologize, even offering me a letter opener to "understand his pain" by cutting myself.
How could the woman I loved be so utterly manipulative, so cruelly deluded?
My future, meticulously planned, lay in toxic ruins.
But amidst the devastation, a memory resurfaced, a lifeline in the darkness.
Today was my 30th birthday.
And a childhood pact with my best friend, Chloe: "If you hit the big three-oh still single, Ethan Reed, you're mine. We marry each other. Deal?"
Just as I stood broken, she appeared, the small gift in her hand, her eyes clear and steady.
"A deal's a deal, Ethan," she said, cutting through the ash of my ruined life.
"Marry me, Ethan. In three days. I'll handle everything."
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