After Calling Off the Engagement, I Became My Ex-Fiancé’s Creditor

The air in the Parisian haute couture salon smelled like money and fear.

I’d waited six months for my wedding dress. Now, it was draped over the shoulders of Sofia Ross—the trending influencer, and my mafia fiancé Vincent Cassio’s god-sister.

The salon manager was sweating bullets, his eyes darting between me and the man lounging on the velvet sofa.

Vincent Cassio stood up. He adjusted a fold of the diamond-encrusted train on Sofia with a casual flick of his wrist. “Her premiere next week needs a statement piece. She’s borrowing it. Pick something off the rack and stop making a scene.” His tone was flat, final.

Under the crystal chandeliers, Sofia admired herself in the full-length mirror, a triumphant smile on her lips.

I looked at my reflection in the same mirror, wearing jeans and a soaked trench coat. I looked like a lost tourist. Suddenly, the entire past year of planning felt like a sick joke.

I didn’t yell. I just felt cold. Numb.

I slipped the five-carat engagement ring off my finger. It hit the glass coffee table with a sharp, final click.

“You’re right, Vincent. I don’t need this wedding dress. This wedding… I don’t need it either.”

The air in the Parisian haute couture salon smelled like money and fear.

I’d waited six months for my wedding dress. Now, it was draped over the shoulders of Sofia Ross—the trending influencer, and my mafia fiancé Vincent Cassio’s god-sister.

The salon manager was sweating bullets, his eyes darting between me and the man lounging on the velvet sofa.

Vincent Cassio stood up. He adjusted a fold of the diamond-encrusted train on Sofia with a casual flick of his wrist. “Her premiere next week needs a statement piece. She’s borrowing it. Pick something off the rack and stop making a scene.” His tone was flat, final.

Under the crystal chandeliers, Sofia admired herself in the full-length mirror, a triumphant smile on her lips.

I looked at my reflection in the same mirror, wearing jeans and a soaked trench coat. I looked like a lost tourist. Suddenly, the entire past year of planning felt like a sick joke.

I didn’t yell. I just felt cold. Numb.

I slipped the five-carat engagement ring off my finger. It hit the glass coffee table with a sharp, final click.

“You’re right, Vincent. I don’t need this wedding dress. This wedding… I don’t need it either.”

...

Silence.

The kind of silence that happens right before a gunshot.

Vincent’s hand, still on Sofia’s dress, went very still.

He turned slowly. The lenses of his designer glasses hid nothing of the icy contempt in his eyes.

“Elara. What did you just say?”

His voice was low, a controlled threat.

My stomach churned.

“I said the wedding is off.”

Sofia let out a girlish giggle. She swished the train—my train—and floated over to me.

“Oh, Elara, don’t be such a bore.” She blinked up at me. “Vince is just helping my career. This dress will get