Chapter 2
Celene’s POV…
You’d think being humiliated in front of half of Manhattan would be the worst part.
It wasn’t. It was the silence that followed, the kind that wraps around your throat and dares you to breathe.
I locked myself in the hotel bathroom, perched on the toilet lid like it was the only thing holding me together. My heels dug into the tile, my hands trembled like I’d been caught in a blizzard. And maybe I had, just not the kind with snow.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
E! News: Rhys Carrington Confirms Split—Seen Cozying Up with Caldwell Heiress at Monroe Gala. Page Six: Corporate Bombshell: Carrington Ditches Wife for Billionaire Princess.
I didn’t even read the rest. I just turned off my phone and dropped it in my clutch like it was contagious.
I pressed both hands to my chest. Don’t cry. Not here. Not now. I wasn’t going to give Vivian the satisfaction, or Arielle, or Bianca, or the photographers camped outside the ballroom like wolves waiting for a fall.
I fixed my hair in the mirror. Pulled the dress higher. Smoothed the mascara. My eyes were red, but no tears had fallen. That was something, at least.
Back in the ballroom, everything felt louder. Glasses clinked, heels clicked, voices murmured. And every single one of them shifted when I walked in.
Vivian turned her back on me like clockwork. Arielle leaned into a blonde in sequins and stage-whispered loud enough for half the room to hear, “At least now the family name isn’t tied to a nobody.”
I didn’t react. I just smiled that sharp, tight smile. The kind that makes your gums hurt. The kind you wear when your skin is crawling but your pride refuses to flinch.
Then I saw them. Past the crystal chandelier, near the edge of the private patio. Rhys and Bianca. His hand on her lower back. Her fingers looped through his tie like a claim. Their lips met, slow, sure, the way a man kisses a woman he chooses. The way he’d never kissed me in public.
And for the first time, I felt… still. Not angry. Not shocked. Just cold. Like I had finally stopped pretending I was anything more than a phase he needed to erase.
I didn’t look away. I didn’t storm off. I let myself absorb it. Every second, every brush of her lips on his, every laugh that followed, every look that said she was always the plan. I walked out the ballroom doors into the winter air. Cameras flashed, reporters lunged.
“Celene, any comment on your husband’s announcement?”
“Did you know about Bianca?”
“Were you blindsided?”
“Are you okay?”
I didn’t blink. I didn’t speak. I just walked through them like fog, my navy dress stiff against the wind, my heels sinking into the sidewalk with purpose. I made it to the end of the block before I let myself stop. I turned around slowly. Looked up. There they were, framed by the second-floor windows. Bianca in red. Rhys beside her, his hand now in his pocket like nothing had happened. Like I’d never existed.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. But my jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might crack. I stared up at that glittering hotel tower, at everything I was walking away from. At everything that had already let me go.
And I whispered, “You’ll regret this. Every last bit of it.” Then I walked. Not because I knew where I was going, but because standing still meant I was still his. And I’m not his anymore.
