Chapter 2

"Just because I skipped your fitting to help Tristan with his sick cat, you’re calling off the wedding?"

Chloe’s voice on the phone was dripping with patronizing amusement. "Carter, have you lost your mind? Over this?"

"Yes, over this," I replied, staring at the sharp lines of the tuxedo in the mirror. My eyes were completely dead. "I’m calling it off. We’re done."

Chloe let out a sharp, angry laugh. In the background, I could hear Tristan’s whiny, dramatic voice consoling her.

"This is the eighth time this year you’ve threatened to break up with me," Chloe sighed. "Carter, you’re a grown man. Stop acting like a dramatic teenager throwing a tantrum. I’m exhausted."

"I have never been more certain about anything in my life. We are through." My mind had never been this clear.

Chloe grit her teeth, her voice turning icy. "Fine. Have it your way. If you walk out of that boutique today, don't you dare come crawling back. Even if you beg on your knees, I won't look at you again. Don't regret this!"

*Click.* The call was cut off.

I took a deep breath, called the stylist over, and took off the designer jacket without a second thought.

The fabric had felt so heavy, but the moment it slid off my shoulders, it felt like a five-year boulder had finally shattered off my chest.

As I changed back into my casual clothes and reached for the door, my phone buzzed.

It was a picture from my brother, Tristan.

In the photo, Chloe was leaning over, tenderly bottle-feeding a fluffy Ragdoll cat. Her profile looked incredibly soft and gentle.

Beneath the photo was a text: *"Looks like our little 'Beanpole' is throwing another fit, huh? Man, I envy how much free time you have to be dramatic. Chloe is just too sweet—she couldn't bear to leave a poor kitty suffering. Don't be mad at her, little bro."*

"Our little Beanpole."

Seeing those words made my stomach churn with pure disgust.

Growing up, I was skinny and sickly. Tristan had rallied all the neighborhood kids to call me "Beanpole." Once, he even pushed me into a deep sandbox, laughing that a beanpole belonged in the dirt.

It was bad enough coming from him, but I had told Chloe thousands of times how much I loathed that nickname. It was my ultimate childhood trauma.

Yet, just two days ago, in front of a group of her wealthy friends, Chloe had laughed, patted my head, and said, "Our little Beanpole just has a short fuse."

I had frozen in embarrassment, and she had blamed me for "not being able to take a joke."

And now, Tristan was using that exact nickname to mark his territory like he was the actual husband.

I didn't write a three-page essay to argue back like I used to. I didn't call Chloe screaming.

I calmly saved the screenshot, set both of their Snapchat accounts to "Do Not Disturb," and walked out.

The afternoon sun was blinding.

I hailed a cab. "To the train station, please."

To hell with this love. To hell with this family.

I was done serving them.