Chapter 4
1155 Words
Kirsten recognized the whiskey bottle instantly.
It was a rare find, one she had pulled strings and called favors to secure from a private Scottish distillery as a surprise birthday gift for Marion. He had been over the moon when she gave it to him, swearing he'd save it for their anniversary.
Now, it was just another prop in her public humiliation.
Her mind flashed back to years ago—Marion's first major business dinner, when he was still clawing his way into the industry.
The partners had tried to break him, pressuring him to down bottle after bottle of hard liquor. Kirsten, barely out of college, had stepped in with a bright smile and drank in his place.
That night had ended in the ER.
She'd been writhing in agony with a torn stomach lining, vomiting blood.
Marion had clutched her hand, his eyes red and swollen, repeating over and over, "Kirstie, I'm sorry. You'll never have to go through this again. I promise."
But that promise meant nothing now.
He had forgotten. Forgotten the pain. Forgotten her.
The woman he once swore to protect had been replaced.
"Fine," Kirsten said softly, her voice steady and emotionless.
She didn't look at Marion's stunned expression. Didn't react to the flicker of smug satisfaction dancing in Verena's eyes.
Without a word, she walked to the liquor cabinet, lifted the heavy bottle with steady hands, and brought it down hard against the marble bar counter.
CRACK.
Glass splintered. Amber liquid splashed.
The air filled with the scent of malt and memory.
Then, under their stunned stares, Kirsten lifted the jagged bottle to her lips and drank.
The whiskey burned like acid, scorching her throat and tearing through her gut. Her open head wound pulsed under the pressure, the sting of alcohol amplifying the pain. But she didn't stop. She couldn't stop.
Each gulp was a farewell. A toast to betrayal. A requiem for love.
She drank like she was trying to drown eight years of devotion in a single, bitter flood.
Half the bottle was gone before Marion finally moved.
"Stop it, Kirsten! Are you out of your mind?" he shouted, panic flaring in his voice. He lunged forward, ripping the bottle from her hands and smashing it to the floor.
Shards scattered. The remaining whiskey bled across the tiles.
"What the hell are you doing?!" he barked. "No one asked you to actually do it! Rena just twisted her ankle. You didn't have to go that far!"
Kirsten looked him dead in the eye and laughed. The sound was sharp, joyless, ice-cold.
"You wanted an apology," she said, breath shallow, fingers white from gripping the counter. "I gave you one. Are you satisfied?"
Before he could answer, a sharp pain tore through her stomach.
Her body folded. The room tilted sideways.
The last thing she saw was Marion's face draining of color as she collapsed to the floor.
*****
Kirsten woke to the sterile sting of antiseptic and the faint beep of hospital machines.
White walls. IV drips. Stillness.
She turned her head.
Marion sat slumped beside her bed, fast asleep. His brows were furrowed even in sleep, and his face looked strained and tense. His expensive suit was rumpled, making him look oddly out of place.
Sunlight slipped through the blinds and painted stripes across his face.
The sight stirred memories of their early days—when he was still struggling to build his company.
Back then, if she so much as caught a fever, he'd drop everything to sit by her hospital bed, meetings be damned. He'd hold her hand through the night and whisper promises like they were sacred.
They didn't have money, power, or status. But somehow, it felt like they had the whole world.
Now?
Now their relationship was like a hollow tree—still standing, still beautiful on the outside, but rotted through at the core. One push, and it would all come crashing down.
Marion stirred, eyes snapping open the moment she moved.
"You're awake." He reached for her hand. "How's your stomach? The doctor said it was acute gastric spasms—plus the head injury. You really scared me."
His voice was soft. Too soft. A sweetness she hadn't heard in years.
Kirsten didn't answer his question. Instead, she asked, "Where's Verena?"
The tenderness slipped from his face. His eyes flicked away.
"I... I had the driver take her home."
Marion paused, fumbling for words. "I overreacted that day. But you didn't have to go to such extremes..."
"Didn't you and Verena demand an apology?" Kirsten cut him off, her voice flat.
Marion was speechless, the air in the room growing frigid.
In the days that followed, Marion turned into a model fiancé. He showed up at the hospital daily. Canceled non-essential meetings. Tried to make soup. He hovered like a man desperate to fix something he'd broken beyond repair.
But Kirsten? She was done.
Her heart was already a graveyard. His affection arrived like flowers at a funeral—too late, too useless.
A few days later, Kirsten was discharged.
It was her twenty-fifth birthday.
To "make it up to her," Marion rented out the city's most exclusive rooftop garden restaurant and threw her a lavish party. Socialites, CEOs, heirs and heiresses... Everyone who mattered was there.
Everything was glamorous and expensive.
Kirsten stood alone in the middle of it all, wrapped in a champagne-colored designer gown Marion had handpicked.
She looked perfect. Flawless makeup, elegant posture, an image sculpted for display.
Around her, the whispers buzzed like flies:
"Look at her. She doesn't even come from a real family. No background at all. Who knows what she did to land Mr. Ballard?"
"Doesn't matter how she got him. Everyone knows the one he really loves is Ms. Sanderson."
"Exactly. Didn't he carry Ms. Sanderson to the hospital last week? In public? This party's just a PR stunt. She's just the decoy fiancée."
Each word landed like a slap. But Kirsten didn't blink. She no longer cared.
Then the room shifted.
A ripple went through the crowd as the front doors opened.
Kirsten glanced over instinctively.
Under the glow of crystal chandeliers, Marion walked in, dressed in a sleek black suit, his presence commanding the room.
And on his arm... was her.
Verena.
She wore a red mermaid gown that clung to every curve. Her makeup was immaculate. Her smile was soft, but her eyes glittered with triumph.
Marion was the host of the night, and Kirsten was the birthday girl. Yet he showed up with another woman on his arm, like she belonged there.
Not just any woman, but Verena.
And they didn't sneak in quietly. They made an entrance. Together, they looked picture-perfect, like a couple straight off the cover of a magazine. Polished. Radiant. Untouchable.
And Kirsten, his fiancée, the supposed star of the evening, became a joke in a room full of strangers.
- Writer
