You Give Up Me, I Give Up You

“Caroline, stay down!" The crystal chandelier shattered above her head, raining glass as chaos erupted inside the Rutherford Hotel ballroom. Gunfire cracked through the air—three warning shots into the domed ceiling—and five masked assailants fanned out, waving rifles and barking orders. Caroline Monroe's body dropped instinctively to the floor, heart hammering in her throat. Her hand reached for Iris Caldwell, who trembled beside the grand piano, still wearing her performance gown. “Don't move!" one of the gunmen shouted, grabbing a server by the collar and hurling him into a row of chairs. People screamed. Women in evening gowns crawled beneath banquet tables. Cell phones were slapped from trembling hands. A tall man in a gray ski mask strode to the microphone and fired one more shot—clean into a champagne tower. Glass exploded. Silence followed. “Now that I've got your attention," the leader drawled, “this is a robbery. Stay calm, stay quiet, and no one gets hurt." Caroline dared a glance toward Mason. He was already moving. At the far end of the ballroom, her fiancé Mason Rutherford—impeccably dressed in a charcoal tux—lunged at one of the smaller gunmen trying to secure the exits. A scuffle broke out, fists flying, a gun skittering across the marble. The masked leader turned, amused. “Well, well. The young Mr. Rutherford showing off for the cameras." Another gunman grabbed Mason and shoved him against a wall, but not before he managed to rip the ski mask off the smaller thug. A baby-faced man winced, trying to cover his identity. “Big mistake, rich boy," the leader sneered. “You want this one back alive?" Mason's eyes flicked toward the ballroom, scanning the crowd. “What do you want?" “A trade," the leader said casually, resting the barrel of his rifle on his shoulder. “We take him back, and you choose someone to go free. Just one. Everyone else stays put until we get what we came for." Murmurs erupted. “You're sick," Mason said, voice low. “Nope," the man replied. “Efficient. So, who's it going to be, Mr. High Society?" Caroline froze. She could feel everyone watching Mason now—the board members, the journalists, the wedding planners still holding checklists. Even the security guards, disarmed and helpless, waited. Time stretched. Please look at me, Caroline begged silently. Pick me. We're engaged. Mason's jaw clenched. His hand curled into a fist at his side. “Iris Caldwell," he said. The name was a bullet. Caroline blinked. Iris blinked. The gunmen nodded. “Pianist girl, on your feet." “I—I don't—" Iris stammered. Caroline's heart plummeted into her stomach as two gunmen grabbed Iris gently, almost respectfully, and led her toward the ballroom's side door. Caroline looked at Mason, stunned. “You're choosing her?" He didn't answer. He didn't look. He followed Iris with his eyes, then strode beside her like a protective shield as they approached the exit. “Mason!" Caroline shouted. Finally, he turned—but not to her. He was adjusting Iris's shawl over her shoulders, murmuring something inaudible. Caroline stared at them, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “Let's go," barked one of the gunmen, yanking her up by the elbow. “Wait—no! Mason!" He didn't look back. As Iris stumbled out, tears streaming down her cheeks, Mason followed two steps behind, the ballroom's broken chandeliers reflecting across his polished shoes. Caroline was dragged toward a service hallway. Her heels skidded against the tile. In the doorway, she turned her head. Mason's back was to her. Always. She didn't resist. Not this time. The heavy doors slammed shut behind her. And just like that, the dream—the engagement, the belief that love could be earned—shattered.