Chapter 5 The Wedding That Was Not Cancelled
1322 Words
The marble hall echoed with the clatter of John's Oxford shoes as he exited. Lina Bishop's manicured fingers clenched her clutch. Didn't he cancel the wedding? The Plaza's event coordinator appeared with an iPad, whispering about floral arrangements and champagne towers.
"Your tech prince has booked the Grand Ballroom," Ethan drawled, checking his Rolex Daytona. "Must have mortgaged his stock options." His laughter echoed off the crystal chandeliers. "Shall we see how the common people pretend to be luxurious?"
Lina couldn't help but laugh. What a proud man. There's not enough time left, and he still won't come to me to take out all his savings. Will he wait until there's no bride before begging like a dog?
Chloe said that she was too easy to get laid before.
In the private dining room, Kobe beef bled onto Limoges porcelain. Ethan shook his Bordeaux. "The Northern Vineyard Estate awaits you, Princess." The nickname was full of caviar irony. "My 'cottage' has a heated pool. We can... discuss your little cash flow problem."
Lina's vermilion nails tapped the goblet. "Five hundred thousand. Temporary liquidity problem." The money hung over the truffle risotto like a sword of Damocles.
Xiao's steak knife stopped while cutting the steak. He was silent immediately. Money worship, the two words he was thinking of.
He didn't want to get into any trouble. He was going to marry the rich lady who owned the whole building.
He hadn't even entered Lina's secret garden, and he had to pay five hundred thousand. Was she crazy? Was she worth so much money?
Xiao Nianchen coughed and threw the peeled shrimp into Lin Xueyao's bowl.
Credit card was frozen. Mother's surveillance. This was his excuse. His smile became cunning. "The assets are... complicated. But becoming Mrs. Brown..." The promise disappeared like the bubbles of Dom Perignon.
Through the French window, John's figure passed through the holographic site model. Lina's laughter tinkled like broken crystal. Let this fool play wedding planner.
She'll sail the Mediterranean on Shaw's yacht while the organ plays Wagner's Wedding Chorus - if she can navigate tonight's "negotiation" correctly.
The sommelier refilled the glass with liquid ruby. Between pouring the third and fourth glasses of wine, Lina's stiletto heel found Ethan's calf under the table. Let the games begin.
Ethan Brown wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, his Rolex gleaming. There was no way this trust fund babe was strapped for cash—his i********: showed him skiing in Aspen last month. Even a frozen account should have blue chip stocks, hedge funds, and the like.
Lina dug her nails into her purse. John should have cashed in his Tesla shares by now. The fool had pawned his Grand Seiko watch to pay off her brother’s gambling debts.
“I need to freshen up,” she whispered, retreating to the gilded bathroom mirror. Dior lipstick taunted her—a hue discontinued last year. John always noticed her changing lip color.
Ethan’s shadow loomed in the mirror. “Vineyard Estates has an iced Bollinger ’09.” His breath smelled of Bordeaux and calculated risk. “We’ll discuss…collateral.”
Lina’s laugh tinkled like broken chandelier crystals. Letting him think she was going to the hospital to “restore” some anatomy made her a coy virgin. Silicone bandages rubbed beneath her La Perla lace.
"Darling," she stroked his Brioni lapel, "your mother's objections disappeared when we filed the marriage papers."
Ethan's Rolex hand grasped hers. "Patience, Princess." His Cartier cufflinks bit her wrist. "These things require... verification."
The elevator doors opened over Ethan's Armani silhouette. Lina's stilettos clacked against the marble floor. Let the code monkey play wedding planner. She'd sip Veuve Clicquot in Ethan's Riviera villa as the cathedral bells chimed—assuming she could pass tonight's "inspection."
Ethan’s alligator loafers squeak on polished marble. The code monkeys that come out of the revolving doors are his personal joke. Let him finish arranging the rose bouquet while I take his fiancée to the penthouse. His fingers tighten around Lin’s waist, leaving invisible bruises through her Reformation dress.
“Honey,” he whispers into her earlobe, “let’s have your ex-girlfriend sit in the front row of our show.” The kiss tastes of Dom Perignon and gloating.
Lina’s pulse beats against his Rolex. Through Ethan’s Armani-clad shoulders, she watches John’s Tesla disappear into Manhattan traffic. She’s calculating, juggling two realms. Those Balenciaga bags in Ethan’s trunk better make up for this gamble.
“Of course I choose you,” she whispers, adjusting his Brioni tie. Her blush matches the bouquet of peonies in the lobby. “That keyboard farmer can’t even afford my skincare routine.”
Ethan’s laughter echoed through the elevator’s gilded interior. Naive fool. He’d bet his trust fund that this “virginity” act was as genuine as the Cartier love bracelet she’d been showing off. Tonight’s vineyard adventure would reveal all. If the goods matched the packaging, maybe he’d wire half the requested amount. Maybe.
Upper West Side Apartment
John’s key got stuck in the twisted lock. The stench of rotting takeout hit him first—three-day-old pad thai congealed next to the Louboutin box. Lucas’s aunt gasped at the dystopian vision: rotting Starbucks cups taking over the marble countertops, silk shirts fossilized in dried champagne spills.
“The deposit covers the deep cleaning,” John lied, kicking a worn Victoria’s Secret thong under the couch. A sharp pain shot through his temple as he remembered Lina’s rendition of “I’m Too Squeamish for Housework.” The weekly delivery of orchids now felt like a tribute to a lazy deity.
Lucas nudged the pizza box with his Tod's loafers. "Dude, you're dating a raccoon in human form."
As they hauled the biohazard-grade trash bags downstairs, John's phone rang. The merger documents for Gu Group glowed accusingly. Let Lina play gold rush with the hedge fund kid. By the end of the month, he'd be in a Silicon Valley conference room negotiating with venture capital firms—away from this garbage dump of bad decisions.
Lina stepped out of the steamy shower, her Patek Philippe watch gleaming in the candlelight. Her silhouette against the frosted glass was reminiscent of a Renaissance nude—all carefully designed innocence.
[All your stuff is cleared out, the house is going to be transferred next week, and I will treat the uncleared stuff as garbage. ]
The screen showed a message from the spare tire
Ethan deleted the information of the "Simp" contact with reptilian satisfaction. Let that password monkey rot in his filthy apartment.
The shower door hissed open. Lina's blush extended to her collarbone sprinkled with Dior powder. "Ethan..." she whispered with practiced modesty. "My brother's fiancée needs..."
His Brunello Cucinelli shirt fell to the marble floor. Three years? Either John Wilson was secretly gay, or this seductress had acting skills at the level of a drama degree. The Gucci belt buckle clicked as he pressed her against the shower tiles.
“Later,” he growled, teeth grazing her Cartier necklace. Let her play the virgin martyr. The prenup lawyers will eventually destroy this gold digger. For now, the fantasy of cuckolding that tech slave fuels his performance.
Upper West Side Apartment
John stared at the empty walk-in closet. The remnants of Lina’s Chanel No. 5 perfume mixed with the fumes of industrial cleaners. The stage manager’s clipboard listed the brutal revisions: “Eliminate all traces of raccoon infestation.”
His iPhone buzzed, Zillow notifications continued. The “Bridal Suite” album taunted him—rose petals on sanitized hardwood, once-moldy takeout boxes rotted away. Lucas’ text gleamed: “Dude. Speed dating tonight on Match.com. Wearing Tom Ford.”
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Manhattan skyline gleamed with cold capitalism. Let Ethan’s hedge fund kid keep the human Tamagotchi. By dawn, he’ll be pitching Sequoia—assuming the “temporary” Tinder wife doesn’t sue for alimony.
- Writer
