Chapter 3
The words were barely out when Alexander's brow snapped into a frown.
He strode over in seconds and grabbed my wrist.
"I've told you—I only see Sophie as a sister." His voice sharpened. "Why are you still making trouble? Why can't you just accept her?"
"Accept her?" I finally laughed. "Accept you turning our marriage into a bet?
"Accept you using my parents' belongings to hold me hostage?
"Or accept you and your 'sister' crossing the line again and again?"
Alexander's face went blank with anger.
Sophie's eyes immediately filled with tears. "Alex, don't blame Julia. It's my fault. I shouldn't have brought up the bet."
Alexander rubbed her back, gentle as ever. "It's not your fault. She's just being dramatic."
Then he looked at me, cold and dismissive. "Fine. Move out. But don't come crawling back later."
I turned without hesitation.
But Sophie suddenly called after me, "Julia!"
She lifted her hand, the ten-carat blue diamond flashing under the chandelier.
"The wedding dress is a little tight on the waist," she said with a sweet, innocent smile. "Do you want me to let it out for you? Since... you know... I'll be the one wearing it."
I didn't look back.
None of it mattered anymore.
I wasn't wearing a wedding dress that wasn't mine. I wasn't marrying Alexander.
*****
And once I walked out of Sterling Manor, I finally felt like I could breathe.
But the next morning, just as I opened my eyes, my phone buzzed violently.
My gallery assistant sounded panicked. "Ms. Evans! The police are here! They say we're involved in money laundering and they're shutting the gallery down!"
I froze. "What?"
By the time I reached the gallery, yellow tape had already been strung across the entrance.
Two financial-crime officers were checking documents at the door.
"Ms. Evans," the lead officer said as he handed me a folder. "Three years ago, a transfer of seven hundred thousand dollars from Garethia was deposited into your gallery's business account.
"Our investigation shows the sender is linked to a cross-border gambling and money-laundering ring. The transfer was anonymous, so your gallery needs to be temporarily shut down."
I froze.
That money came from Alexander. Three years ago, back when my business was barely staying afloat, he stepped in like a hero.
He even signed the agreement for me, smiling like he couldn't be prouder. "Julia, your talent deserves the best start."
How could this possibly go wrong?
My hands were shaking as I called him.
He picked up after three rings.
Soft piano music played in the background. His voice was calm, almost bored. "I heard the gallery got shut down?"
It was not a hint of surprise.
My voice cracked. "Alexander, that money came from you. You—"
He let out a short laugh. "You want me to clear your name?"
My chest tightened.
He tapped something on his desk, the sound crisp through the line. "I told you the day you walked out that you'd regret it. So tell me, Julia, do you regret it now?"
It felt like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.
The last tiny bit of hope I'd held onto vanished completely, leaving nothing but cold.
I lowered my gaze. "Alexander, I don't regret any choice I've made."
He scoffed, "We'll see how long that lasts."
Then he hung up.
I stood outside the tape, helpless, watching the staff carry out my paintings one by one—each packed into cardboard boxes sealed with evidence stickers.
Inside those boxes were all my paintings—"Spring Night", the one that won my first award; "Camellia", my mother's favorite before she passed; and "The Silhouette", the portrait I sketched the first night Alexander stayed up with me.
It was his back I drew.
Now every piece of it was being tossed into boxes like it was worthless trash.
*****
When I got back to my tiny rental apartment, my phone buzzed.
It was a notification from Sophie's social media.
The photo showed her sitting on the gallery's leather couch, wearing a champagne-colored couture dress, smiling like she owned the place.
Her caption had only two lines: [Some things look better with a new owner. @Julia, thanks for the gallery.]
The comments were even worse.
[I always said Julia's gallery was trash. Turns out it was laundering money too.]
[Mr. Sterling is such a saint—his fiancée gets into trouble, and he still refuses to leave her. What a man.]
[Ms. Turner looks perfect sitting there. She and Mr. Sterling should just get married already.]
My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles went white.
My phone buzzed again.
It was Alexander. His message was as arrogant as ever: [Come back. I'll return the gallery to you.]