The harsh fluorescent lights of the ER flickered over Sylvia' s pale face, her party dress torn, mascara smudged. She was my vibrant, wild fiancée-to-be, now fragile and broken from a "roofie" incident. I knelt at her gurney, proposing in that sterile room, promising to be her anchor, to always keep her safe. My life as a simple craft brewery manager felt real with her, far from the corporate schemes of my wealthy family. But the night before our engagement party, rushing to find her, I found her apartment door slightly ajar. Then I heard it: "Wasn't the fake roofie stunt enough? This isn't fair to Caleb!" and her callous response, "Caleb's just too... vanilla. I have needs." The 'roofie'-a performance. My devotion, my comfort, my entire world built on her calculated lie for "content." The woman I loved, mocked me, played me for a fool, shamelessly indulging in an illicit party with her sleazy manager. Every word of sincerity, every act of tenderness I gave her, was met with cold, manipulative mockery. How could the woman I was ready to marry be so utterly fake, so greedily hollow, so ruthlessly cruel? My world collapsed, but in the ruins, a new, chilling clarity emerged. I pulled out my phone, scrolled past her name, and dialed a number I hadn't touched in a year. "Dad. About that merger... I'm in." She thought she was playing games with a vanilla brewery manager. She had no idea she was messing with Caleb Wright, the heir to Wright Oil. The game was far from over. It had just begun.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the ER flickered over Sylvia' s pale face, her party dress torn, mascara smudged.
She was my vibrant, wild fiancée-to-be, now fragile and broken from a "roofie" incident.
I knelt at her gurney, proposing in that sterile room, promising to be her anchor, to always keep her safe.
My life as a simple craft brewery manager felt real with her, far from the corporate schemes of my wealthy family.
But the night before our engagement party, rushing to find her, I found her apartment door slightly ajar.
Then I heard it: "Wasn't the fake roofie stunt enough? This isn't fair to Caleb!" and her callous response, "Caleb's just too... vanilla. I have needs."
The 'roofie'-a performance. My devotion, my comfort, my entire world built on her calculated lie for "content."
The woman I loved, mocked me, played me for a fool, shamelessly indulging in an illicit party with her sleazy manager.
Every word of sincerity, every act of tenderness I gave her, was met with cold, manipulative mockery.
How could the woman I was ready to marry be so utterly fake, so greedily hollow, so ruthlessly cruel?
My world collapsed, but in the ruins, a new, chilling clarity emerged.
I pulled out my phone, scrolled past her name, and dialed a number I hadn't touched in a year.
"Dad. About that merger... I'm in."
She thought she was playing games with a vanilla brewery manager. She had no idea she was messing with Caleb Wright, the heir to Wright Oil.
The game was far from over. It had just begun.
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