After Calling Off the Engagement, I Became My Ex-Fiancé’s Creditor

The air in the Parisian haute couture salon smelled like money and fear.

I’d waited six months for my wedding dress. Now, it was draped over the shoulders of Sofia Ross—the trending influencer, and my mafia fiancé Vincent Cassio’s god-sister.

The salon manager was sweating bullets, his eyes darting between me and the man lounging on the velvet sofa.

Vincent Cassio stood up. He adjusted a fold of the diamond-encrusted train on Sofia with a casual flick of his wrist. “Her premiere next week needs a statement piece. She’s borrowing it. Pick something off the rack and stop making a scene.” His tone was flat, final.

Under the crystal chandeliers, Sofia admired herself in the full-length mirror, a triumphant smile on her lips.

I looked at my reflection in the same mirror, wearing jeans and a soaked trench coat. I looked like a lost tourist. Suddenly, the entire past year of planning felt like a sick joke.

I didn’t yell. I just felt cold. Numb.

I slipped the five-carat engagement ring off my finger. It hit the glass coffee table with a sharp, final click.

“You’re right, Vincent. I don’t need this wedding dress. This wedding… I don’t need it either.”

...

Silence.

The kind of silence that happens right before a gunshot.

Vincent’s hand, still on Sofia’s dress, went very still.

He turned slowly. The lenses of his designer glasses hid nothing of the icy contempt in his eyes.

“Elara. What did you just say?”

His voice was low, a controlled threat.

My stomach churned.

“I said the wedding is off.”

Sofia let out a girlish giggle. She swished the train—my train—and floated over to me.

“Oh, Elara, don’t be such a bore.” She blinked up at me. “Vince is just helping my career. This dress will get so much more attention on the red carpet than at some boring church.”

She leaned closer, her perfume cloying. “You’re usually so understanding. Why be difficult now?”

“Take it off.” My voice cut through her simpering.

Sofia scurried behind Vincent, her lower lip trembling. “Vince, she’s scaring me.”

Vincent shoved her behind him and closed the distance between us in two strides. He loomed over me.

“Enough, Elara.” Irritation etched his perfect features. “Sofia has been the center of the red carpet since she was a child. She brings in millions for our family. The resources go where the money is. That’s how we build our future.”

He looked me up and down, his gaze dismissive. “What do you, a woman who doesn’t even work, need a three-hundred-thousand-dollar dress for anyway? Who are you trying to impress?”

Each word was a little knife. Five years. Five years of playing the supportive, quiet partner, and this was my value.

I clenched my fists, my short nails biting into my palms.

“That dress was custom-made for me. For our wedding. You didn’t ask. You just took.”

Vincent snorted. He leaned in, his expensive cologne suffocating.

“Ask you?” he whispered, the words meant only for me. “I paid for it. I pay for everything. The clothes on your back, the roof over your head. Everything you are, you owe to me.”

He jabbed a finger into my shoulder. Hard.

“Show some gratitude, Elara. My patience isn’t infinite.”

I stared at this arrogant stranger. He genuinely saw no wrong. I was property. Chattel.

I was done talking.

I turned and walked toward the ornate double doors.

“Stop!”

His hand clamped around my wrist like a vise. Pain shot up my arm.

“Let go, Vincent!”

He yanked me back, his grip tightening. He bent his head, his lips brushing my ear.

“Don’t test me,” he hissed. “Go pick a dress from the rack. The wedding is next Saturday. Be a good girl, and after Sofia’s premiere, I’ll charter an island for a proper ceremony.”

He paused, his breath hot against my skin. “But if you walk out that door now…”

He let the threat hang, his eyes dark. “I’ll make sure you can’t buy a paper gown in this city. You’ll have nothing.”

I met his gaze, the pain in my wrist fueling a cold fire in my gut.

“You disgust me.”

I wrenched my arm free. Angry red marks circled my wrist.

I didn’t look back. I pushed through the salon doors into the chilly Paris evening.

Behind me, I heard the distinct thunk of an electronic deadbolt engaging.

And Vincent’s cold, confident laugh.