My Ex-Fiancé Stole My Dreams

nding schedule of Detroit project preparations. The rigorous nature of the work, the endless data analysis, the meticulous planning-it was a welcome distracti

yed, still within the New York office's orbit, even if my physical presence was confined to the staff hou

r. My stomach tightened with a familiar dread. I let it ring. A few momen

rasitic family. T

sit wouldn't be a pleasant one. It never was. I closed my laptop, the screen r

mother, her face a mask of aggrieved concern, my father, his jaw set in a grim line. And Artis, slouched against a pillar,

and theatrical, carried across the lobby. "We've been s

est, a shield against their emotional onslaught. "What do

f! Your father's credit card was declined this morning! And Mom can't afford her new wardrobe for the c

Artis," I stated, my gaze steady. "I n

speak to your brother like that, young lady! He's going through a tough

e I thought it was what a good daughter, a good sister did. But you don't care about me. You o

to the side, the sudden impact sending stars dancing behind my eyes. I stumbled back, losing my footing, and landed hard o

nly amplified my humiliation. I lay there for a moment, the cold marble seeping into my bones, the taste of blood in my mouth. My face stung, my arm throbbed, but

pain, but for the spectacle we were creating. "This is emb

furious gaze, my own eyes burning with a newfound coldness. "I will not give you anythin

He raised his hand again, his eyes glinting with ma

ared as if from nowhere, stepping in front of me, shielding me with his own body. Artis's hand, mea

was he protecting me? A tangled mix of confusion and

. My parents, too, looked terrified. Declan Sharp. The man who wielded immense power, the one the

His movements were calm, deliberate. "Security to the main lobby," he said into the phone, his vo

, wait! No, please! She's ou

was an unprovoked assault. And repeated harassment. That is a criminal o

ontorted with fear and desperate apologies, were led away, their protests fading down the hallway. "Cayla, please

arm, faded into a dull background thrum. Their pleas, their accusations, meant nothing to me anymore. T

e and blood-stained sleeve. "You're hurt," he said, his voice laced with an u

demands. Declan, then a senior, a brilliant prodigy already making waves, had once seen me cowering in a corner, bullied by some older students. He'd stepped in, silent and formidable, his mere presence enough to send them scattering. He hadn't said a word

elped me now. My heart, a stubborn, bruised thing, ached with