He kept choosing her over me until I canceled our wedding and took back the future he thought was already his

"Good evening, gentlemen," said the woman in the Chanel suit. It was Clara Vance, Dante’s fiercely independent cousin and the head of the European Securities and Markets Authority's compliance division—a woman who made sharks look like goldfish.

Julian stumbled backward, his face turning an alarming shade of pale gray. "Clara? What is the meaning of this? This is a private meeting!"

"Private meetings involving corporate extortion and illegal asset manipulation tend to lose their privacy when reported to the proper authorities," Clara said smoothly, flashing her official badge before sliding it back into her jacket pocket. She turned to the photographer, who immediately snapped a high-flash photo of Lord Alistair and Julian sitting beside the open red-ribboned legal files. "Make sure you get their good sides, Arthur. Tomorrow morning's front page is going to need a striking visual for the exposé on international white-collar conspiracy."

Lord Alistair slammed his crystal glass down onto the table, the scotch splashing over the rim and staining the confidential documents. He pointed a shaking, aged finger at Dante. "You set us up! This is a kangaroo court!"

"No, Uncle," Dante said, stepping out from behind my chair and walking slowly toward them like a wolf closing in on a cornered hare. "This is what happens when you mistake a tactical retreat for weakness. You thought we were running away to lick our wounds in Mayfair. Instead, we walked straight into the lion's den—and brought the zookeepers with us."

I stood up, smoothing down my emerald blazer, and walked over to the table. I picked up the documents Julian had tried to use to blackmail me. With deliberate, agonizing slowness, I tore them in half, letting the pieces flutter down onto the polished wood like dead leaves.

"It’s over, Julian," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "No more boardrooms. No more society games. And absolutely no more second chances."

Julian opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow gasps as the reality of his total, catastrophic defeat crashed down upon him. The corporate sponsors who had backed his hostile takeover attempts in Chicago would see these photos by morning; his career, his reputation, and his high-society standing were officially ashes.

As the regulators moved in to serve formal notices of investigation, Clara gestured toward the door. "Shall we leave these gentlemen to discuss their legal representation with people who actually care?"

We walked out of the St. James Private Club hand-in-hand, leaving the wreckage of our past behind us in a haze of camera flashes and shouting lawyers. Outside, the London rain had finally stopped, leaving the wet streets sparkling under the morning twilight. The air smelled clean, fresh, and utterly liberated.

As we slid back into the Bentley, Dante looked over at me, his eyes shining with profound respect and fierce, unadulterated love.

"Well," Dante smiled, pulling me close against his side as the car pulled away from the curb. "That went better than expected. Want to grab breakfast at Claridge's before we figure out what country we conquer next?"