Chapter 8

Julian told me he’d moved in about six months ago.

And throughout those six months, he’d heard that kind of commotion every couple of weeks.

I looked down and let out a cold, bitter laugh.

Six months ago. That was the exact week Tyler proposed to me on that yacht.

Seeing my hollow expression, Julian tried to cheer me up again:

"Dodging a bullet before walking down the aisle is a blessing in disguise. Your whole life is ahead of you."

I met his dark, bright eyes and managed a faint smile.

"Thank you. Really."

"Can you do me one more favor?"

"What's that?" He arched an eyebrow.

"Next time you hear anything over there... text me right away."

A signature, roguish smirk touched his lips. "Consider it done."

...

When I got back to the penthouse, I tossed the ring box carelessly into the back of a drawer.

Then I texted Tyler:

[When are you coming home?]

He replied in seconds: [Babe, why are you still awake?]

[I'll be back tomorrow morning. Pulling an all-nighter to finalize the proposal, then catching the first flight back.]

I didn't reply. Instead, I opened my photo album and scrolled back through five years of memories.

From college dorms to downtown skyscrapers, from a rotting studio to a multimillion-dollar penthouse... the photos became sharper, higher in resolution, but the boy who once held out his entire heart to me became blurry.

I remembered the day he confessed his feelings, his young face flushed red with awkward shyness.

His voice had been barely louder than a whisper:

"Sienna, I've loved you for so long. Will you be my girlfriend?"

"I promise I will treat you right, forever and ever."

Now, years in the corporate grind had polished him into a smooth, calculating, slick CEO. The raw sincerity and passion had completely died out.

Looking at the cute sticker he just sent me, my resolve hardened into stone.

This wedding was definitely off.

But I wasn't leaving empty-handed.

I once told him: I need a whole lot of love, and a whole lot of money.

Now that the love was dead, the gap had to be filled with cold, hard cash.

It wasn't hard to dig into the other woman. Within hours, I had her background.

Her name was Amber Vance. A wannabe influencer and gold-digger who had latched onto Tyler at a networking mixer.

Beyond Tyler, she was juggling several other men—all of them wealthy, married, or gullible.

She loved money above all else.

Perfect. That made things so much easier.

I created a burner account on SnapChat and sent her a friend request.

For the verification message, I wrote just one line:

[Do you want to marry Tyler Reynolds and become the official Mrs. Reynolds?]