My ex laughed the loudest as champagne soaked through my black dress, ran down my legs, and pooled inside my shoes while nearly forty people watched me burn with humiliation. Six months earlier, Damian had dumped me by text, coldly saying I no longer fit into his future—but apparently breaking my heart wasn’t enough for him. He wanted an audience when he humiliated me again. Then the ballroom doors opened, and the most feared man in New York walked in—and Damian had no idea who he had just embarrassed in front of him.

At ten o'clock the following morning, the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was packed with New York’s elite society.

Photographers' flashes strobed rhythmically near the entrance as high-profile guests arrived in silk dresses and expensive suits. The main topic of conversation throughout the room was a single bombshell headline that had broken on the front page of the New York Post at seven that morning:

JULIAN MERCER ENGAGED TO MYSTERY BEAUTY AVA REED.

I stepped out of Julian’s Maybach wearing a floor-length, ice-blue satin gown by Alexander McQueen that clung to my curves perfectly. My hair was styled in an elegant updo, exposing my neck, which was adorned with a fifty-carat diamond necklace from Julian's private family vault. The oval-cut engagement ring caught the morning sun, flashing blinding rays of light with every step.

Julian stood beside me in a sharp navy suit, his hand resting securely on the small of my back, guiding me past the frantic reporters.

"Look straight ahead, my love," Julian whispered into my ear, his breath warm against my neck. "Let them drown in their own curiosity."

We entered the ballroom. The room went dead silent the moment Julian Mercer walked in—and then the murmurs exploded like a wave.

Sitting at Table 4 was Victoria Langford, looking pale and miserable beside her wealthy parents. And standing near the service station, wearing a plain waiter's vest and holding a silver tray, was Damian Cross.

Damian looked like a broken man. His eyes were red, his expensive haircut disheveled, and his hands were shaking so badly the glasses on his tray rattled softly.

As Julian and I were guided to the head table—reserved for the event's primary sponsors—we passed directly by Damian's station.

Damian raised his head, his eyes locking onto me.

The sight of me—wearing diamonds worth millions, holding the arm of the most powerful man in the city, radiating pure elegance—struck him like a physical blow. The tray in his hands tilted violently.

CRASH!

Three water glasses shattered against the marble floor, splashing cold water all over his trousers and cheap shoes.

Several high-society women gasped in disgust, pulling their dresses away from the mess.

"You idiot!" the head caterer hissed, rushing over and grabbing Damian by the shoulder. "Clean that up immediately! What is wrong with you?!"

Damian dropped to his knees on the hard floor, frantically picking up the broken glass with his bare hands, his face burning with absolute, total humiliation while nearly two hundred wealthy people watched.

Julian stopped right in front of him.

Damian looked up from the floor, his hands bleeding slightly from a glass shard, staring at the polished leather shoes of the man who had destroyed his life in twelve hours.