He Married Her for a Game, So I Disappeared

After losing a game of truth or dare, my fiancé went to City Hall and married another woman.

I had called him forty-seven times.

In the end, the only answer I got was Seraphina’s Instagram story.

In the photo, she and Vincenzo were holding a brand-new marriage certificate. She was smiling like she had won, and he was wearing the white shirt I had ironed for him that morning, his fingers casually pinching her cheek.

One minute later, he called me.

“Elena, don’t make this bigger than it is. It was just a game. Give me thirty days. I’ll divorce her, and then we’ll get married like we planned.”

He thought I would forgive him the way I always had for the past three years.

But this time, I didn’t cry.

I didn’t make a scene.

I simply liked Seraphina’s post and commented, Congratulations.

Then I took off my engagement ring and left New York.

He thought I was just throwing a fit.

Only when his calls stopped going through, and his men searched the entire city without finding me, did he finally panic.

But he had no idea.

The Elena who loved him had died the moment he married someone else.

The marble floors of New York City Hall glinted coldly under the fluorescent lights.

One minute remained until our scheduled appointment. Vincenzo’s phone went straight to voicemail for the forty-seventh time.

I leaned against a marble pillar.

Then my phone pinged.

My informant had sent me a screenshot from Seraphina’s private Instagram story.

Truth or dare went way too far. We actually got married.

Below the caption was a photo.

Seraphina and Vincenzo were holding a freshly signed marriage certificate.

The city clerk’s stamp was still visible at the bottom.

Vincenzo’s fingers pinched Seraphina’s cheek, a lazy smirk on his face.

His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar.

The same shirt I had pressed for him that morning.

Three months earlier, I had brought him that custom silk shirt for our engagement photos.

He had been cleaning his Beretta 92F, not even looking up.

“It’s just a family formality. Stop being so dramatic.”

My thumb hovered over the screen. I liked the post and typed “Congratulations.”

My phone rang immediately.

Vincenzo’s voice was sharp with annoyance.

“Delete that comment. Seraphina’s almost crying. It was just a game. I’ll divorce her in a month, then we’ll get married. Go back to the apartment and stop acting like a child.”

I looked down at the crumpled appointment confirmation in my hand. I had booked it three months in advance.

A small, cold smile touched my lips.

Three years of late nights covering his back, three years of putting my family’s plans on hold for him, three years of pretending his casual cruelty did not hurt.

All of it, just a game.

Marco, my driver and bodyguard, opened the door of the waiting Bentley.

“Where to, Miss?”

“Manhattan apartment,” I said, sliding into the back seat.

The apartment was loud