2: The Broken Engagement
720 Words
Three weeks.
That was how long it took for Amara’s world to fall apart.
Three weeks since Darian asked for her kidney.
Three weeks since she walked out of that cafeteria, still wearing the engagement ring that now felt like a chain.
And three weeks since he stopped calling.
At first, she told herself he was just busy. That his mother’s illness had consumed him. That he needed space.
But deep down, a small voice whispered what she refused to admit — that she had already been replaced.
She didn’t believe it until she saw the headline.
⸻
“CRUZ HEIR ENGAGED TO HOLLINGSWORTH CORPORATION’S DAUGHTER.”
The glossy photo stared back at her from the hospital’s waiting room television. Darian looked perfect — tailored suit, confident smile — his arm draped possessively around a woman with pale skin and diamond eyes. The caption read: “Power Couple of the Year.”
Amara’s world tilted. The engagement ring on her finger suddenly felt like fire.
Her colleague, Nurse Jessa, noticed her stillness. “Amara?” she whispered, glancing at the screen. “Oh God… isn’t that—?”
Amara forced a smile, the kind that broke at the edges. “Yes,” she said faintly. “That’s him.”
The laughter of coworkers, the whir of machines, the beeping of monitors — it all became distant noise. She excused herself, stumbling down the hall and out into the courtyard where the humid air pressed against her skin like a warning.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A message. From him.
Darian: I was going to tell you. It’s complicated. You deserve someone who can give you more than I can right now.
She stared at the words, disbelief curdling into rage.
He couldn’t even say it over the phone.
He didn’t even have the decency to end things like a man.
⸻
That evening, she went to his penthouse — not to beg, not to plead — but to end it properly. The doorman hesitated when she arrived, glancing nervously at the intercom before letting her through.
The elevator doors opened to laughter and champagne.
She stepped into the living room and froze.
Darian was there — in the same suit from the article — surrounded by guests. The woman from the photo was beside him, her hand resting on his chest.
When he saw Amara, his smile faltered for half a second before he masked it with cool indifference.
“Amara,” he said, tone tight. “You shouldn’t be here.”
The other woman — Celeste Hollingsworth, according to every business headline that week — turned, curiosity sparkling in her perfect eyes. “Oh,” she said sweetly. “Is this your assistant?”
Amara’s breath caught. The room blurred. Laughter rippled around her.
Assistant.
“No,” she said softly, voice trembling but sharp as glass. “I’m the woman he promised to marry before you came along.”
The laughter stopped. A heavy silence fell over the room.
Darian’s jaw clenched. “Amara, not here—”
“Why not?” she snapped. “You were bold enough to make me a fool in public. Why not finish the job here too?”
Celeste smirked, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Poor thing. Did he tell you? Business marriages are rarely personal. You should know how this world works.”
Amara’s heart shattered — not because of the cruelty, but because of the truth in it. She had never belonged to his world. She had only been a placeholder until something shinier came along.
Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Instead, she slipped the ring off her finger and placed it on the marble table between them.
“You wanted proof of love, Darian,” she whispered. “You got it. You just didn’t deserve it.”
Then she turned and walked away — not waiting for an apology, not caring about the whispers behind her.
She walked out of the glittering tower and into the cold rain that fell like judgment from the heavens.
By the time she reached her small apartment, she had made a silent promise to herself:
She would never let a man like that break her again.
Love was a luxury she could no longer afford.
- Writer
