His Proposal? I Tore It With His Moonlight

I stumbled upon the phone memo of my boyfriend, Yale Clark, by sheer accident. What I found there wasn't a collection of sweet messages, but rather an elaborate scheme to create his perfect woman. Plan A: Train her to smile with her lips curving up at a precise 15 degrees, just like Yvonne. Plan B: Get her to ditch spicy food, since Yvonne had never been a fan. Ultimate Goal: Shape her into the flawless shadow that would ease my heartache over losing Yvonne. I became the unwitting subject of this twisted experiment. He saw me merely as a reflection of his dream girl, slowly erasing the essence of who I truly was. The stark glow of my phone screen illuminated my ghostly face. I meticulously read through the memo titled Loving Scarlett. Loving Scarlett? It became clear that it wasn't about me at all, but rather a reflection of his affection for Yvonne Smith. With a blank expression, I set the phone down. The cushion on the sofa remained perfectly untouched, as if I had never sat there. Moments later, Yale emerged with a platter of neatly sliced fruit, still donned in the cartoon apron I had gifted him. Spotting me, he offered a warm smile and used a napkin to dab at the imaginary juice stain at the corner of my mouth. "Scarlett, you're getting more well-behaved every day." A wave of nausea rolled through my stomach. I forced a smile, angling it just the way he preferred, at a perfect fifteen degrees. He seemed pleased, his eyes drifting to the beige dress I wore today, showering me with compliments. "It looks great. It's so much better than those loud red and green outfits you used to wear—those were way too flashy, like you were trying too hard. This is much more polished and elegant now." I recalled how all the vibrant dresses in my closet had either been deemed "not your style" by him, leading to suggestions of donating them, or had been unceremoniously tossed into the trash with labels like "too gaudy." In the past, I thought it was simply the give-and-take of a relationship. But at that moment, I found out it was a quiet form of destruction. "What's on your mind?" Yale leaned in, his breath warm against my skin. "Nothing," I replied. He appeared delighted by my acquiescence and eagerly started outlining our future together. "Scarlett, I spoke with my parents. Once we tie the knot, you should really consider leaving your venture capital job. That circle is too chaotic, filled with drinking and social events, not what you need right now. You will stay at home, learn flower arranging, and do some baking. Sounds delightful, right?" His voice was so syrupy sweet it could have been bottled. For the first time, I didn't simply nod along as I usually did. "I have an urgent meeting at the office. I need to go back." I stood up, snatched my bag from the sofa, my movements quick and uncharacteristic. Yale's smile faltered. "Right now? But it's late." "It's urgent." I didn't allow him to question me further and headed straight for the door to change my shoes. He trailed behind, wrapping his arms around me, resting his chin on my shoulder, a subtle mix of frustration and possessiveness in his tone, "Scarlett, please don't leave. Stay and keep me company." I gently pushed his hands away, my voice steady, "Yale, I'm not your possession." He was stunned. But I didn't turn to see his reaction. Instead, I opened the door and rushed outside. Once I settled into the car and locked the doors, I finally felt free to drop the facade. I didn't cry. Not a single tear escaped. On the contrary, a fierce blend of anger and humiliation surged within me, threatening to consume me whole. I was Scarlett Stone, the youngest partner at Illumine Ventures, renowned for my sharp instincts at the negotiation table. I had never faced defeat. Yet, in the cruel game of love, I had been made a fool for three long years. I revved my engine and tore down the deserted streets. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was Harper, my personal assistant. "Ms. Stone, Sawyer is making another play for the Skyward project. He's acting quite high and mighty, insisting that we don't have the right designers." Sawyer Gray, my fiercest competitor in the industry. He had a point. Taking a deep breath, I steadied my voice to sound completely calm, "I see." After hanging up, I flipped the car around. I wasn't a backup. I was the one and only Scarlett. That realization washed over me like a wave of tranquility. I dialed an unknown number, contacting the top private investigator in town. "I need you to gather information on a woman named Yvonne Smith. I want every detail you can find. You have three days."