Addicted To The MC President

Chapter Two Public Announcement

~ Lily ~

By the time Sebastian, my stylist, finished pinning diamonds into my hair, I already wanted to cancel the entire night.

Unfortunately, wealthy women apparently do not get to vanish just because they’re emotionally exhausted, and that rule applies especially to me.

“Turn your head slightly,” Sebastian murmurs while adjusting something near my shoulder.

“No, the other way. Perfect.”

Everyone loves that word around me.

Perfect dress, perfect marriage, perfect posture, and a perfect smile.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror while assistants move quietly around the penthouse, preparing the final details for tonight’s fundraiser.

The silver Valentino Dylan requested clings to my body like liquid metal beneath the room lights, while diamonds rest against my throat, heavy enough to feel almost ceremonial.

They feel like armour designed specifically for rich women.

Outside the bedroom windows, the city glows gold beneath heavy rain clouds while helicopters drift lazily above the skyline.

Somewhere downstairs, my security team is already coordinating arrivals with event staff because the fundraiser tonight includes politicians, investors, old-money families, and enough cameras to make everything feel instantly exhausting.

It is exactly the kind of event Dylan thrives in.

And exactly the kind of event that leaves me emotionally hollow afterwards.

Sebastian steps back finally, completely satisfied with whatever expensive illusion he’s created for the evening.

“You look ravishing, Lily,” he comments.

“I don't feel ravishing,” I reply flatly.

“You should,” he says dryly while packing his makeup brushes away.

“Half the women in that room are going to absolutely hate you tonight.”

I laugh softly, but the sound doesn’t feel real even to my own ears.

Truthfully, women stopped hating me for my beauty years ago.

Now, they just hate me for staying with him.

My phone lights up on the counter with a brief message from Dylan saying to come outside.

Of course, he didn’t bother coming upstairs to greet me.

I grab my clutch slowly before standing up, the tailored dress pulling tightly against my ribs when I breathe.

Suddenly, I feel completely exhausted all over again.

Some nights I genuinely wonder whether marriage is just a never-ending theatrical play for wealthy people.

You smile.

You pose.

And after you get tired of the charade the lawyers divide the assets afterwards.

By the time I take the elevator downstairs, Dylan is already waiting beside the entrance scrolling through emails on his phone.

He glances up briefly when I approach, his expression tightening.

“We are running late because you wasted too much time,” he barks coldly.

“I was upstairs getting ready for a function you sprung on me out of nowhere,” I snap right back.

His jaw tightens slightly, looking like he already regrets snapping at me before a public appearance.

“The press arrived earlier than expected,” he adds by way of an excuse.

One of the security guards opens the car door before either of us can say anything else.

We slide into the leather backseat of the black SUV.

Rain drizzles steadily against the tinted glass as we sit in absolute silence, separated by a physical gap wide enough for a toddler to sit between us.

Dylan finally looks at me properly halfway through the drive, his eyes scanning my outfit.

“The silver was the right choice,” he says.

I stare at him for one long second.

Then another.

Suddenly, I almost laugh out loud because my husband or should I say my ex-husband genuinely sounds like he’s complimenting a piece of office furniture.

“Thank God,” I say flatly.

“I was absolutely desperate for your approval.”

The silence afterwards stretches long enough to become deeply uncomfortable.

Outside the window, the city blurs past in a flurry of gold and black reflections while traffic crawls through the rain-slick streets below.

Dylan returns to answering his emails before we even reach the venue.

Classic narcissistic behaviour.

Emotionally unavailable, but professionally punctual.

The hotel hosting the fundraiser glows like a literal palace when we arrive.

Cameras immediately start flashing the second our vehicle stops beneath the entrance canopy.

By the time Dylan and I actually step onto the red carpet, we've already smiled for twenty-seven different photographs.

Not that I'm keeping count.

The rain has stopped, but the wet pavement outside the hotel still glitters brightly beneath the relentless camera flashes.

Photographers keep shouting our names from every possible direction.

"Lily! This way, please!"

"Lily, over your left shoulder!"

"Dylan! Give us one together!"

Dylan immediately slides a hand against my lower back, and the casual movement almost makes me laugh.

He doesn't touch me all week in the privacy of our own home.

But the second you put a camera in front of him, he suddenly acts like the Husband of the Year.

I turn toward another lens and give the press the exact dazzling smile they've been waiting to see.

The cameras click in unison.

The grand performance continues without a hitch.

"You look beautiful tonight," Dylan says quietly while maintaining his perfect smile for the flashing lenses.

It's the first complete sentence he's spoken to me all evening.

I glance at him, noting how his practised smile never wavers, and ensure mine doesn't either.

"Thank you," I reply smoothly.

The exact moment we step inside the building and out of sight of the press, his hand disappears from my back.

Just like that, he is right back to his usual detached self.

As we walk in, the room is absolutely packed.

Crystal chandeliers hang overhead, champagne flows like water, and a live string quartet plays near the grand staircase, as politicians mingle effortlessly beside billionaires, while high-society socialites float from conversation to conversation like bottles of expensive perfume.

And everywhere I go in this room, people feel the need to tell me how lucky I am.

"Lily, you and Dylan are absolute relationship goals."

"Honestly, seeing your marriage gives the rest of us hope."

"You two still look like you're newly married."

I politely thank every single person who speaks to me.

Then I proceed to lie through my teeth because that's exactly what I have to do to keep up this exhausting facade.

During one conversation, an older woman gently squeezes my hand with a sentimental look in her eyes.

"I always tell my daughters to find a man who looks at them the exact way Dylan looks at you," she whispers.

I almost choke on my champagne at her words.

Across the room, Dylan is busy laughing with a senator.

He hasn't looked at me a single time since we walked through the doors.

An hour later, I am completely exhausted both physically and emotionally from the sheer stress of it all.

With my patience worn entirely thin, I finally manage to excuse myself from the conversation and escape to the quiet of the upper floor in search of a restroom.

The farther I get from the main hall, the quieter everything becomes.

As my heels click against the marble floor, I realise it's the first time all evening that I can finally hear myself think.

Then I hear them.

Female voices.

Young.

Drunk.

Laughing without a care in the world.

The sound drifts clearly from around a nearby corner.

"I swear she's still wearing the ring," one voice says.

The group immediately erupts into laughter.

I stop dead in my tracks.

"I mean, what else is she supposed to do?" another woman asks mockingly.

"Everyone in this city knows Dylan cheats."

More laughter erupts around the corner.

Immediately a wave of hot embarrassment crawls across my skin.

I know I should keep moving.

I know I should walk away.

Instead, I stay frozen exactly where I am and listen.

"Do you think she actually knows?"

"Of course she knows."

"No, seriously," another woman snorts loudly.

"The entire city knows," a voice replies dismissively.

Someone's giggles break through the general chatter.

“God, I almost feel bad for her. She always looks so blissfully happy in her photos.”

“That’s just what happens when you’re rich, babe.”

“No,” a sharper voice whispers, laced with pure malice. “That’s what happens when you’re desperate.”

Then they all erupt into mean giggles.

The kind that only comes from people who've never had their own personal humiliation turned into public entertainment.

My fingers tighten at my sides as I listen to them demolish my dignity.

Then one girl says the exact thing that finally lands like a physical blow.

"Honestly? The absolute saddest part is that she still acts like she's his wife."

Immediately silence fills my head.

Because technically, I'm not his wife.

I haven't been his wife for six whole months.

And nobody knows that secret except for Dylan and me.

I turn around and walk away quickly before they can notice me standing there.

My chest feels strangely tight.

Not because their words hurt but because they are entirely right.

As I walk farther down the isolated hallway, I notice one of Dylan's personal security guards standing rigidly outside a private suite.

Immediately, something cold and heavy settles deep in my stomach.

The guard sees me approaching.

His expression instantly changes to one of pure panic.

That guilty look is all I need to see.

"Mrs Callahan," he mutters.

His voice is noticeably shaking.

I stop directly in front of the door.

"What room is this?" I ask coldly.

The guard hesitates.

Shifting his weight.

"Move," I tell him flatly.

He doesn't dare argue with me.

I open the heavy door.

The overwhelming smell of alcohol and nose-stinging perfume hits me first then the sound of loud laughter follows the instant I walk in, the room falls dead silent.

As several women freeze and stare at me.

One nearly drops her drink onto the floor.

And there, right in the centre of the suite, sits Dylan.

His tie is loosened.

A glass is held firmly in his hand.

A blonde woman is perched comfortably on his lap while another woman leans seductively against the couch.

The devastating realisation slams into me when one of them actually starts laughing.

A real, amused laugh directed right in my f*****g face.

The blonde on his lap looks between Dylan and me, shifting uncomfortably.

"Oh."

That’s all she says.

As though I've interrupted a funny joke.

Dylan slowly rises from the couch and I watch a look of pure annoyance flash across his face with no hint of guilt or shame.

Just annoyance from the fact that I've disrupted his night.

“That’s it.”

That is the exact moment something inside me finally snaps.

After years of burying his affairs, swallowing his pathetic excuses and pretending the humiliation didn't taste like ash in my mouth.

The truth finally hits me, the thing that breaks me tonight isn't the betrayal. It's the sheer and casual disrespect.

As the realisation settles over me with absolute and lethal clarity.

I realise I don't belong here anymore, not in this marriage for show, not in this lie and certainly not in this humiliating role.

"Lily," Dylan begins, stepping toward me.

I simply hold up a hand.

He stops talking immediately.

For the first time in years, I don't want an explanation.

I don't want an apology.

And I genuinely don't want a single thing from him ever again.

I turn on my heel and leave the room.

My heels strike the floor with a sharp clicking sound as I walk away.

This time, Dylan actually follows me out into the hallway.

"Lily," he calls after me.

I ignore him completely.

"Lily, stop."

I keep walking.

The grand ballroom appears below me.

The massive space is packed with hundreds of people trading empty smiles and polished lies.

Completely oblivious to the storm currently coming down the stairs.

Suddenly, all the hesitation leaves my body and I know exactly how I'm going to end this tonight.

Dylan catches my arm near the bottom of the staircase.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asks under his breath.

I pull my arm free from his grip.

And for the first time all night, I flash a smile.

Not the practised high-society smile I wear for the press.

A genuine one.

"Something I should have done months ago," I tell him.

Then I walk straight toward the stage.

The host is in the middle of introducing the next speaker when I step up beside him.

A look of deep confusion immediately crosses his face.

I calmly reach over and take the microphone directly from his hand.

The entire ballroom falls dead silent within seconds.

Every conversation stops and every head turns toward the stage.

Across the room, I watch Dylan go completely pale.

Good.

I look out at the crowd.

At the politicians.

At the investors.

At the socialites.

At the people who spent years treating my marriage like a fairy tale.

Then I lift the microphone to my lips.

"Good evening, everyone."

The room answers me with a wave of polite, amused laughter.

I smile back at them.

"As you all know, my name is Lily Ryder, and I'd like to take a moment to clear up a major misunderstanding."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dylan start moving frantically toward the stage.

Too late.

Way too late.

I look directly at him.

Then I look right back at the crowd.

"I would like to bring something out into the open tonight."

"My husband, better yet, my ex-husband, and I have already been legally divorced for six months."

And for one beautiful second, the entire room freezes. Nobody moves, nobody speaks, nobody even seems to breathe. Then, the room explodes into absolute chaos.

Gasps echo through the crowd as a wave of frantic whispers breaks out. Within seconds, phones start appearing everywhere, their screens lighting up the dark ballroom as the internet begins to burn in real time.

I calmly hand the microphone back to the stunned host and step off the stage.

Leaving the wreckage of my old life behind me.

Before I can even reach the exit, my phone starts vibrating violently in my hand. It’s an absolute onslaught of news alerts, urgent calls, and a relentless flood of messages, mostly from Dylan. Then reporters, friends, and everyone else we’ve ever known.

I don't bother answering a single one of them.

As I push through the back entrance doors and step out into the cool night air, I let the screen flash fruitlessly into the dark.

For the first time in years, I choose myself. And this time, I'm not asking for permission.