Chapter 3
I stood frozen on the dais, my fingers still hovering above Alexander's urn as he stepped forward. The determination in his eyes told me everything—this was the moment they'd planned their betrayal. Three years of my life, my kindness, my misguided affection—all about to be thrown back in my face before Manhattan's elite.
"Victoria," Alexander's voice carried across the hushed ballroom, "I—we—can't do this anymore."
Marcus and Ethan moved to flank him, a united front against me. The crowd shifted, sensing the drama unfolding, phones already raised to capture my humiliation.
"The truth is," Alexander continued, his voice growing stronger, "none of us could ever marry you. We've been...enduring this arrangement for your money, but we can't keep pretending."
The words struck like physical blows, each one designed to wound. Even knowing what was coming, hearing it spoken aloud before hundreds of witnesses sent ice through my veins. I remained perfectly still, my face a mask of composure while inside, something hardened further.
"We've found real love," Ethan added, his eyes darting nervously to the edges of the crowd. "Something genuine, not...transactional."
On cue, there was movement near the bar. Sophia stepped forward, wearing my mother's sapphire necklace—the real one, not the replica I'd claimed was in a safe deposit box—and my vintage Chanel dress. The ultimate violation, parading through my home in my mother's treasured pieces.
"Please," she cried, her voice breaking with practiced perfection as she clutched her stomach dramatically. "I'm carrying Alexander's baby! These men—they love me, not her. They've been trapped by her money, forced to...to..." She dissolved into theatrical sobs.
The gasps rippled through the crowd like a wave. Penelope Davenport's mouth hung open in shock before she frantically began typing on her phone, no doubt blasting the scandal to her extensive network. Camera flashes erupted around the room, immortalizing my public humiliation.
"She's evil," Sophia continued, tears streaming down her face, smudging the mascara I recognized as my own. "She's trying to separate me from my true loves. Please, someone help us!"
Alexander moved to put his arm around her protectively, while Marcus and Ethan flanked them like guards. The perfect tableau of righteous lovers against the villainous rich woman.
I remained silent, watching them bask in their moment of triumph. Their smug expressions told me everything—they thought they'd won, that they'd successfully cast me as the predator and themselves as the victims. That Manhattan society would rally around their love story and condemn me.
The whispers grew louder, the camera flashes more insistent. I could feel the room closing in, the air thick with judgment and scandal. For a moment, I considered walking away, retreating to lick my wounds in private. But something kept me rooted to the spot—perhaps pride, perhaps the knowledge that this was merely the first act in a drama whose ending they couldn't possibly anticipate.
Just as Alexander opened his mouth to deliver what I assumed would be another rehearsed blow, the grand double doors at the entrance to the ballroom burst open with a thunderous crash.
Sebastian Blackwood stood in the doorway, his powerful frame silhouetted against the light from the foyer. His tuxedo was immaculate, his dark hair slightly disheveled as if he'd been running his hands through it in agitation. The notorious playboy heir to the Blackwood fortune—known for his scandalous affairs and ruthless business tactics—surveyed the room with burning intensity until his eyes locked on mine.
"You stole my seed, Victoria," he bellowed, his voice echoing off the marble columns. "Explain yourself!"
The room fell into shocked silence. Even Alexander, Marcus, and Ethan stood frozen, their carefully orchestrated performance derailed by this unexpected interruption. Sophia's fake tears dried instantly as she stared at the newcomer in confusion.
I felt the weight of hundreds of eyes shifting from me to Sebastian and back again, waiting for my response. In that suspended moment, I realized the tables had turned. Whatever game Sebastian was playing—and I had no idea what it was—he had just handed me back control of the narrative.
And I intended to use it.
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