Chapter 3
I returned to my apartment after the disastrous brunch, my hands still trembling slightly as I placed my phone on the marble countertop. The recording from Le Bernardin played in my mind like a broken record—Brody's casual dismissal of our decade together, his calculated plan to use me for my family's fortune while keeping Indie on the side.
My phone buzzed with a text from Victoria: "Where are you? I'm coming over."
I didn't reply. Instead, I opened my phone's recording app and stared at the screen. The red button seemed to pulse like a heartbeat.
*You should have seen her face,* Brody's voice echoed in my memory. *Like she'd never even considered I might have needs beyond her.*
Needs. As if I were some kind of utility rather than a person who had loved him since we were children.
I pressed the red button and began speaking softly: "Test recording. Today is...the day I realized what my life has been worth to Brody Wells."
My voice sounded strange to my own ears—calm, measured, when inside I was splintering into a thousand pieces.
The doorbell rang. Brody stood in the hallway, his perfect features arranged in an expression of concern that might have fooled me yesterday.
"Amber," he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "We need to finalize the arrangements for tomorrow."
I slipped my phone into my pocket, the recording still running. "Arrangements?"
"For the wedding, of course." He took my hands in his, his touch now repulsive. "I've been thinking about what you said at the brunch. Perhaps we can compromise."
"Oh?" I kept my voice neutral, feeling the weight of my phone in my pocket.
"Indie means nothing to me," he lied smoothly. "But if you're concerned about appearances, we can wait until after the honeymoon before...resuming our arrangement."
I swallowed hard, bile rising in my throat. "And if I'm not comfortable with that arrangement?"
His eyes hardened slightly. "Amber, be reasonable. Do you think your father built his empire by being sentimental? Marriages in our circle are partnerships. Strategic alliances."
I nodded slowly, as if considering his words. "I need time to think."
"Of course." He kissed my cheek, his cologne making me nauseous. "I'll see you tomorrow at the church."
As soon as he left, I stopped the recording and played it back, listening to his calculated manipulation with clinical detachment.
---
The next morning, I arrived at my parents' estate early. My father was in his study reviewing documents, while my mother was arranging flowers in the solarium.
"I need to speak with you both," I said, my voice stronger than I expected. "Privately."
They exchanged concerned glances but followed me to my father's study without question.
I closed the door behind us and took a deep breath. "I know you've always treated Brody like a son," I began, "but I think you should hear this."
I pulled out my phone and played the recording from Le Bernardin first. My father's face darkened with each word, while my mother's hand flew to her mouth.
"That's not all," I said when it finished. I played the recording from yesterday's visit—Brody's clinical discussion of our "arrangement" and his dismissal of our relationship as merely strategic.
When I finished, the room fell silent. My mother's eyes were bright with unshed tears, but my father's expression had transformed into something I'd rarely seen—cold, calculated fury.
"He never intended to honor his commitment to you," my father said finally, his voice dangerously quiet. "He sees our family as nothing more than a bank account to be accessed through you."
"And the Wells family has been complicit in this," my mother added, her voice trembling with anger rather than sadness. "All those dinner parties, all those business opportunities we provided..."
I nodded, watching as shock gave way to determination in both their faces.
"What do you want to do?" my father asked, his eyes meeting mine.
Before I could answer, he pressed an intercom button on his desk. "David, I need you in my study immediately."
David Chen, our family's financial advisor for twenty years, appeared moments later. My father didn't waste time with pleasantries.
"Review every investment we have with the Wells family," he instructed. "Every partnership, every joint venture, every line of credit. I want a complete picture by this afternoon."
David nodded, his expression grim as he glanced at me.
"And call James Mitchell at the Wall Street Journal," my mother added suddenly. "Tell him we have an exclusive he might be interested in."
My father raised an eyebrow at her.
"The wedding will proceed as planned," she said, her eyes meeting mine with perfect understanding. "But we'll need to ensure the right people are there to witness it."
I felt a strange calm settle over me as I watched my parents begin to orchestrate what would become Brody Wells' downfall. The wedding wasn't canceled—it was just transformed into something else entirely.
Something far more fitting for the man who had tried to buy my life.
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