I Found My Fiancé's Cheating Diary and Exposed Everything

Chapter 2 The Matcha Latte Test

Rowan's fingers stiffened, just for a beat.

Then he smiled like everything was fine and pressed one of the hot cups into my freezing hands.

He reached out and mussed my hair with one big palm, his voice half teasing, half sweet.

"Celeste, you been watching those dumb loyalty-test videos on t****k again? They're all staged for clicks. Come on—I'm crazy about you. What would I even have to hide…?"

Before he could finish, the phone on the coffee table began to vibrate.

He glanced at the screen. Something flickered in his eyes, and he immediately turned it facedown.

"I've got a call coming in from overseas. Won't be long."

He spoke a little faster than usual, then strode into the study and shut the door behind him.

I looked down at the Starbucks cup in my hands.

The green drink smelled rich and grassy. Matcha latte.

I was seriously allergic to matcha. One sip and I'd be covered in hives—might not even be able to breathe.

He'd never slipped up before. Even slammed with meetings, he used to drill it into his assistant that nothing coming to me could have a speck of matcha in it.

But now he had a "Sweet Peach" who came before I did—somebody worth the trouble.

The study door soon opened. Rowan emerged wearing the painfully familiar look of apology on his handsome face.

Whenever "business" required him to leave my side, he put on that perfect mask.

"Celeste—"

"Another emergency?"

I cut him off before he could weave another beautiful lie.

He recovered quickly and nodded along.

"Yes. There's a serious problem with a merger. Legal needs me to go in and sign off on it. It's urgent."

I stared into his eyes, searching their depths for even a flicker of panic or guilt.

"Can you stay?" I asked softly.

His expression hardened for a split second, and his brows drew together.

"Celeste, don't make this hard."

"You know I work this hard because of our future. I need to prove to my mother that even though I gave up the family trust for you, even without the Cavendish family's support, I, Rowan Cavendish, can still build an empire of my own and give you the best of everything."

Rowan's mother, Margaret Cavendish, came from an old, stiff-necked Eldorian blue-blood family. She'd never had any use for me.

The reason was simple. I came from an ordinary family in Riverton, and my parents had divorced when I was young. To old money like the Cavendishes, my background was beneath notice. I was nowhere near good enough for their illustrious family.

Rowan, on the other hand, had been born into immense wealth as the heir to a financial dynasty.

Before he met me, his entire life had already been planned, right down to the woman he would marry—the daughter of a media tycoon.

But he fell in love with me at first sight in college and defied his entire family for me.

In a rage, Margaret cut off all his money and banished him from the family estate. She declared that if he could carve out a place for himself in the ruthless world of Westbrook within five years without taking a cent from his family, she would reluctantly accept me and our relationship.

For those five years, Rowan worked like a madman without ever stopping.

I worked just as hard, staying up day and night over blueprints as I fought to make a name for myself in architecture. I never dared let up.

I was terrified of becoming a burden to him, terrified Margaret's words would come true: "What can she do besides hold you back?"

Margaret never stopped trying to make me give up, either.

Her first offer was $500,000. Then it became $5 million.

One month ago, in a private room at the Grand Monarch Hotel, she had slid one more check across the table to me.

Ten million dollars.

Same string attached as always: take the money, leave her son.

I'd never laid a finger on that check.

I loved Rowan, and I believed down to my bones that he loved me just as much.

Pig-headed and naive, I'd bought the idea that real love could ride out anything—beat the class thing, close any gap in money.

Until now.

The faith I'd been so sure of started cracking like glass.

His phone started going off hard in his pocket again.

He pulled it out, looked at the screen, and didn't even reach for a better excuse this time.

"Celeste, I really have to run. Driver's already downstairs. Make sure you eat something."

He didn't wait for an answer—just grabbed his coat, turned, and walked out.

The second the door clicked shut, I grabbed my phone off the coffee table, threw on my coat, and went after him like a shadow.