"Tonight, he will break her in front of the world."
Selene Thorne, née Aris, was a shadow in a staff uniform. She gripped the silver serving tray, her knuckles white. Her heart wasn't beating; it was jackhammering, a frantic prisoner in her chest.
Three years. That's how long the secret marriage had lasted. A whispered vow, a simple ring, a fortress built against the world.
Now, Kaelan Thorne, the CEO, the monarch of finance, was on the glittering stage. His face was granite, cold and untouchable. His arm was linked with Elara Vance, the banking heiress. Elara, all diamonds and calculated smiles. She looked like the future. Selene looked like a mistake.
This is necessary. For protection. The excuse was weak, brittle.
The Chief of Staff's voice boomed: "Please raise your glasses to Kaelan Thorne and his beautiful fiancée, Elara Vance!"
The word fiancée was a direct hit. Selene swayed, the expensive noise of the applause drowning out the blood rushing in her ears. A corporate metaphor for death.
Elara cooed, leaning close to Kaelan's chiseled jaw. A possessive whisper. A gesture of ownership.
Kaelan's silver eyes swept the room. They cut through the crowds, the lights, the lies.
And they found her.
For one second, the icy mask cracked. She saw it—a flash of searing regret, of devastating loss, a phantom depth that belonged only to her.
She almost moved. She almost hoped.
But a waiter brushed past. The moment was lost.
Kaelan's eyes snapped away, his jaw tightening into a familiar, brutal line. His voice, amplified for the entire world, sliced through the air.
"It seems we have staff disrupting the celebration. See to that girl. She is just an employee, and clearly overwhelmed."
Just an employee. Publicly dismissed. Publicly humiliated. The necessary evil was just an outright rejection.
The cameras surged. Elara seized the opportunity, turning Kaelan's head with a diamond-clad hand. She kissed him. It was long, slow, and deliberately visual. A physical announcement: He is claimed.
Selene didn't hesitate. She didn't drop the tray; she slammed it. The shattering of a thousand dollars' worth of crystal was the sound of her breaking point.
I am not passive.
She ran. Not home. Just away. Away from the stage, away from the man who stood on it, sealing her fate with a stranger's kiss.
Behind the stage lights, Kaelan felt the sudden, crushing vacuum of her absence. The panic was cold and absolute. Selene. Stop.
Elara was talking about the ring. Kaelan heard nothing. The only sound was the frantic pounding in his ears. He shoved Elara's hand away with cold efficiency.
"I need a moment," he ground out, striding toward the main doors. He had to stop her before she did something reckless.
He reached the armored glass just in time to witness the tragedy.
Selene was running across the rain-slicked plaza, her small, dark figure blind with tears. She didn't check the road. She was running on pure, suicidal instinct.
Don't! Kaelan silently screamed, slamming his hands against the glass.
A black Bentley, a blur of speed, swerved to avoid another car.
Headlights. A raw, tearing screech.
And then, the sound that would forever mark the end of his composure: a dull, sickening thud. The world went silent, save for the chaos of horns.
Selene lay on the asphalt. Motionless. A dark, rapidly blooming stain framed her head.
Kaelan didn't wait. He didn't care about the cameras now swarming the entrance. He didn't care about the political fallout. He tore through the doors, racing toward the crumpled silhouette.
He dropped to his knees in the pooling rainwater, blood instantly soaking his expensive suit. His hands found her head, cradling it gently. He searched frantically for a pulse, his silver eyes wild with a sudden, devastating surge of raw emotion.
"Get an ambulance! Now!" he roared, his voice ripped raw.
He leaned in close, his whispered words meant only for her, a frantic, desperate confession of the truth. A shocked reporter's microphone, forgotten on the ground, caught the sound.
"Call an ambulance! That's my—"
The screen fades.