Chapter 3

"We didn't cheat. Jerick's my childhood sweetheart. We were meant to be."

The second she said it, the press went wild.

Elite-family drama was their oxygen—they'd dig through trash like their paychecks depended on it.

"Ms. Bianchi, what about Noah Northam? Weren't you two engaged?"

Her gaze slipped. After a beat, she smiled. "Mistaken love just shows you what real love is. I thank Mr. Northam for helping me find my heart."

She might as well have said I was the clingy one, using power to trap her—when she's the one who cheated.

I laughed. She was out here trashing my family's name on live.

The harder she scrubbed her image, the dirtier she looked to me. No way I was letting her off easy.

On the way to the exhibition, my phone buzzed again.

Saw the caller ID. Picked up calm as ever.

A steady voice asked, "You sure this marriage isn't just payback?"

I smirked. "Don't you want the market share Bianchi just tanked? This marriage? Pure strategy. Win-win."

Shea Serrano paused, then let out this soft little laugh. "But I'm not some bargaining chip. I want more than a cold alliance. I want your heart."

Didn't see that coming.

"If you don't betray me, then take it."

She laughed again—light, like silver wind chimes. "Perfect. See you at the wedding."

When I rolled up to the exhibition, my bodyguards got to work—wrecking the place.

I grabbed the mic.

"Ivette Bianchi, you said you're chasing true love. Then why'd you bankroll Jerick's show with NORTHAM money?"

The second I dropped my family's name, it hit her like a truck.

She froze, face drained.

Every camera locked in, waiting.

I kept going. "Right. You and Jerick go way back. So close, you let him use your FIRST TIME blood as paint. If he meant that much, why not call off the engagement? Or were you just too hooked on my family's money?"

Jerick's face darkened.

I dropped the real bomb. "Jerick Weiner, you knew she was getting married and still wanted to be best man. So what is it—couldn't let go, or just wanted to humiliate the Northams?"

The crowd exploded.

Reporters rushed forward.

"Is what Mr. Northam said true? Were you really about to marry him?"

Jerick's face twisted under the pressure.

"Noah, what's your deal?" he snapped. "If you weren't clinging to her—flexing power, threatening her family with bankruptcy—do you think she'd even agree to marry you?

"I don't care what you do to me. I'll love her 'til I die!"

His voice cracked, high and frantic, throwing punches with every word.

Cameras clicked like crazy. Some reporters even cheered.

I crossed my arms, smirking. "That's your idea of 'flexing power'? Let me show you how it's done."

On cue, my bodyguards yanked down the painting—their little trophy—and smashed it straight over Jerick's head.

Glass flew. Blood poured. The painting got stained all over again.

Ivette's eyes went wild—red, furious, feral.

Didn't faze me. I faced the press cool as ice.

"Tomorrow's headline better say: 'Fiancée cheats before the wedding. Noah Northam strikes back.' One word off, and you're blacklisted by my family for life."

Reporters nodded like their jobs depended on it.

I strolled over, tapped Ivette's cheek, and snorted. "That? That's real FLEX. You wanted Jerick famous? I'm just speeding it up."

I opened the car door, glanced back—she was scrambling to stop his bleeding.

"Oh, and that $30 mil you stole? Your family's paying it back. Times a hundred."

That cracked her. She snapped. Pointed at me, eyes blazing. "Just you wait!"