Chapter 3

The engagement party was set for Saturday at the Marriott downtown.

Ethan had reserved twelve tables, inviting his corporate executives, colleagues, and extended family from both sides.

Three days prior, I personally messaged every single guest, urging them to arrive on time.

Rachel asked me, "What are you planning?"

"You'll see when the time comes."

"You're not going to cause a scene at your own party, are you?"

"Me? Cause a scene?" I laughed lightly. "I'm just hosting a nice dinner for everyone."

Rachel didn't buy it, but she knew better than to push.

She knew that once I made up my mind, wild horses couldn't drag a secret out of me.

The night before the party, Ethan miraculously stayed home.

He stayed in and even volunteered to cook dinner.

Sweet and sour pork ribs, sautéed vegetables, and tomato egg drop soup.

In three whole years, the times he had cooked could be counted on one hand.

"Babe, tomorrow is our big day," he said, placing a rib onto my plate. "Nervous?"

"A little."

"Don't be. It's just a ceremony," he said, taking my hand. "Once the party is done, we'll sign the marriage license. You'll officially be Mrs. Miller."

I forced a smile.

Mrs. Miller.

What a lovely title.

Too bad it was never meant for me.

It was reserved for the woman carrying his child.

I looked down at my food and asked quietly, "Ethan, have you ever had any regrets?"

He froze for a second. "Regrets about what?"

"Regrets about being with me."

"What are you talking about?" He frowned. "Why would I ever regret being with you?"

"Good to know."

He had no clue what I meant, and I had no intention of elaborating.

While he did the dishes, I sat on the couch checking my phone.

Rachel messaged: "What do you need me to bring tomorrow?"

"Bring a portable charger to keep my phone running. I need to record everything."

"Record? Record what?"

"A hell of a show."

The day of the engagement, I woke up at 6:00 AM.

Rachel had hired a top-tier makeup artist for me.

I requested a full, radiant bridal look.

Rachel watched from the side, chewing her lip. "Spill. What are you doing?"

"I'm going to collect what he owes me in front of everyone."

"Owes you what?"

"The down payment for my condo came from my mother. He borrowed thirty thousand dollars from me claiming he was launching a startup, but gambled it away on day trading. And my car—it's under my name, but he's been driving it for two years."

Rachel's jaw dropped. "So you're..."

"I'm debt collecting," I said, applying bold red lipstick in the mirror. "And while I'm at it, I'm letting everyone see what kind of scum they're celebrating today."

The makeup artist's hand twitched. "Wait, honey... are you sure you want full bridal makeup for this?"

"Yes. Make it stunning. I want the last image he has of me to haunt him for the rest of his miserable life."

At 9:30 AM, I arrived at the hotel.

Ethan was greeting guests at the entrance, sharply dressed in his tailored suit, his hair neatly styled.

Seeing me step out of the car, he hurried over. "You look gorgeous today."

"Thank you."

He reached to put an arm around me, but I stepped aside, dodging his touch.

"What's wrong?"

"Too many people around. Let's keep it classy."

He didn't suspect a thing and turned back to mingle with guests.

I walked into the grand ballroom and found Rachel.

"Got the files?"

Rachel pulled a thick manila folder from her designer tote. "Everything you asked for is inside."

I opened it to inspect the contents.

Bank transfer records, chat screenshots, social media photos, and an ultrasound report—the last of which Rachel's friend had pulled from the hospital database. The patient's name read "Vanessa Brooks," and gestational age was "12 weeks."

Three months.

Ethan had first brought up getting engaged three months ago.

The timeline aligned perfectly.

While discussing our future wedding, he was actively knocking up another woman.

I divided the evidence into three neat copies.

One for Ethan's mother, one for his company executives, and one for myself.

Rachel whispered, "When are you making your move?"

"Patience. Let him finish his performance first."