His eyes darkened. "Clara, is that really how little you think of me?"
"I didn't do anything wrong—why are you breaking up with me?!"
I froze, completely blindsided by his shamelessness. I never imagined he could be so blind to the pain he had caused, so unapologetically self-righteous.
A few nearby guests at the gala had begun glancing our way, sensing the tension. I didn't want to cause a scene, so I grabbed his wrist and pulled him out of the venue.
We found a quiet bistro around the corner. I planned to finish this, clearly and finally.
The moment we sat down, Mark tried to soften his tone, his words clumsy. "The food in France must be terrible. You've lost weight. Come back with me."
He leaned forward. "When we get back, we'll get the marriage license right away. I'll give you the dream wedding you always wanted."
For eight years, I had dreamed of marrying him.
But every time I'd brought it up, he'd claimed the timing was wrong, that the company was at a critical stage and we should wait until it went public.
Then, a month ago—just as Samantha arrived—he'd proposed. I'd been thrilled and threw myself into planning every detail.
But then he'd brought her to our home. "Clara," he'd said, "you're going to be my wife. You have to treat Samantha like your own sister."
Only later did I realize: the proposal wasn't about love. It was about securing a full-time, live-in caretaker for her. And because of her, our wedding had been "postponed" over and over.
The memory made my head ache. I looked at him squarely. "Mark, we are done."
He frowned, clearly displeased. "Clara, why are you being so stubborn? I told you—Samantha was in pain during her period. I was just taking care of her. Why can't you be more understanding?"
I didn't respond. There was nothing left to say.
Instead, I took out my phone and scrolled to the screenshots. The ones Samantha had so proudly sent me.
I turned the screen toward him. Photos of them kissing.
The color drained from Mark's face.
"Clara," he said quickly, "she was drunk. I scolded her. She's just a child, she's spoiled. You shouldn't take it to heart."
A child? I almost laughed. The "child" he was defending was only two years younger than me.
I leaned forward, my voice steady and cold. "Mark, your company's big IPO is approaching, isn't it?"
"Tell me," I continued, "if the media got hold of a story about the CEO cheating on his fiancée right before the launch, how do you think that would affect investor confidence?"
He finally understood. This wasn't a plea. It was leverage.
His jaw tightened. His fists curled at his sides.
"You… you're threatening me?"
"Call it whatever you want," I said, calm as ever. "But if you really think I'm bluffing, try me."
His voice faltered. "Fine," he said after a long pause, his eyes red with anger. "I hope you don't regret this."
I watched as he stormed out of the bistro, already pulling out his phone to book the next flight home.
Only then did I finally feel like I could breathe again.
I watched as he stalked out of the restaurant, his phone already pressed to his ear, no doubt booking the next available flight home.
Only then did I finally feel like I could exhale.
On my way back to the gala, I noticed a tall figure standing just outside the entrance.
Ethan.
As I approached, he smiled.
"It got a little stuffy inside," he said lightly. "Came out for some fresh air."
I didn't say anything, but in my heart, I knew he had been waiting to make sure I was all right. I was grateful.
Another month passed.
I had fully settled into my new life in Paris. I'd even adopted a small terrier mix—Buster—who was now the apple of my eye.
On a quiet weekend afternoon, Ethan dropped by to let me try one of his latest recipes.
I was out front in the garden, giving Buster a bath, my hands covered in suds, and my hair stuck to my forehead.
Ethan laughed when he saw me.
He scooped up a spoonful of the food and offered it to me.
I took a bite—and my eyes lit up in surprise.
"This is amazing!" I exclaimed, my voice muffled.
He grinned, clearly pleased.
Seeing the soap bubbles on my cheeks, he gently wiped them away with a napkin.
"Look at you," he chuckled. "You're a mess."