After They Humiliated Me I Ended Their Wedding

Chapter 2

The wedding reception was almost over. The loud music had faded away.

I sat at the cold head table.

My throat burned. Every swallow hurt.

Garrett came over with a warm glass of honey water and a gentle smile. "Good girl. Your throat's bothering you, right? Drink this—it'll help."

I looked up at him.

For a second, I remembered how carefully he used to protect my voice.

I didn't think twice.

I took the glass and drank it all down.

Suddenly, a heavy sleepiness came over me. My head spun, and I couldn't keep my eyes open.

Right before I blacked out, all I saw was Garrett's blurry shape.

When I opened my eyes again, I was in a strange hotel room, staring up at a fancy crystal chandelier.

My body was weak and sore. I could barely move my arms and legs.

Garrett's voice came from outside the door. "Isabella, the biggest investor is a fan of yours. Dance once for him today."

Through the door, it gave me chills.

I struggled to sit up, my chest cold, and shouted at the door, "Garrett, do you even have a conscience?"

There was a pause outside. Then his voice came, flat. "I'll stay by the door. I won't let you get hurt. You just need to perform Papillon."

I froze. Papillon was one of my earliest pieces.

I had only danced it once, and almost no one knew.

The room stayed silent for a long moment.

I clung to one last hope—maybe if I danced, I could leave.

I slowly stood up against the wall. My dress still hung on me, wrinkled.

There was no music. I danced alone, relying on muscle memory.

It was a piece from a musical I knew best. I kept time with my feet—turning, lifting my arms, leaping.

I finished the dance.

The room was still quiet.

No one opened the door. No one set me free.

The little hope inside me broke apart.

I stumbled to the door and pounded on it with my palms. The banging echoed down the hall.

"Garrett? I finished the dance. Open the door! Let me out!" I shouted.

There was no response from outside the door.

Only then did I realize he was long gone from the other side.

At some point, Hannah called.

Garrett answered it and walked away.

His promise was nothing but a lie.

As I pounded on the door again and again in despair, a low, cold male voice drifted in.

It was neither near nor far, somehow familiar, and every word landed clearly in my ear. "This is the man you chose—what a piece of trash."

Just then, the door beeped and opened.

I didn't have time to think about what he meant. I walked out right away.

That was when a flash went off in my face.

"Reporters, over here! Right here!" Hannah's shrill voice suddenly rang out.

Garrett hurried over, shock all over his face.

Countless cameras turned on me—my clothes a mess, my body dripping with sweat.

Reporters swarmed me and shoved microphones in my face.

"Isabella, what's going on? Why are you in a hotel room this late at night?"

"I heard you're a musical theater actress. Are you here to entertain an investor?"

"You ran out of the wedding, and now you're at a hotel. How do you explain that?"

I didn't scream or cry. I didn't try to explain.

I clutched a voice recorder—one I had turned on from the very start.