Chapter 2: The Return and the Ruin

I took the engagement ring out and handed it, along with the jewelry box, straight to Ethan—pushing it across the empty space between us like a debt I’d long since paid.

My hands barely shook as I dropped the ring into his palm—my nails biting so hard into my skin I almost drew blood. Ethan’s face contorted: disbelief, pain, and something raw flickered through his eyes, like the day Harvard wait-listed him. He clutched the ring, his expression shifting in rapid-fire—anger, regret, then desperation—before he softened, calling up that old prep school charm.

“Claire, breaking the engagement won’t be good for your reputation either. You know how people talk—at the club, at charity luncheons, on the alumni Facebook group. This was my mistake. We’ve known each other since we were kids—sandbox, prom, all of it. If you apologize, we can still go through with the wedding. St. Patrick’s, the Plaza, just like we planned…”

My mother laughed cold and sharp, a sound that had cowed Fortune 500 CEOs. She snatched the ring from my hand and hurled it onto the marble. The diamond popped from its setting with a tiny, shattering ping that echoed through the frozen ballroom.

“Mr. Harrison, you must be joking. You haven’t even married my daughter and already parade your mistress around, then let her break the engagement? What’s next—inviting her to the wedding as a plus-one?”

“Our Mitchell family might not be old money, but we have principles. Today’s disaster is not Claire’s fault. Some people are blind, but the rest of us see the truth. Don’t worry, Mr. Harrison. I’m sure the Yale Alumni Newsletter will be all over this by morning.”

As her words rang out, the tension broke like a dam. The ladies—my mother’s friends, their Chanel perfume swirling—gathered around me, hands on mine, voices warm with expensive sympathy.

“Claire is a wonderful girl. Remember the hospital fundraiser? She raised two million in one night!”

“My son at Columbia Law has been asking about her since the debutante ball!”

They shepherded me toward the lounge, heels clacking in a circle of protection. The quartet started up again, this time with a lively Vivaldi. My father worked the room, already spinning this scandal for business leverage, while my mother entertained with a steely smile.

No one looked at Ethan and Emma anymore. They were invisible—just two more party crashers, no more important than the wait staff.

Ethan stood alone, knuckles white around the jewelry box, watching me go.

Emma peeked out from behind him, cautious as a mouse. “Ethan, Miss Mitchell agreed to break the engagement. We can be together now, right? Vermont, like you promised? Away from all this?”

Ethan shot back, voice low and tight: “Happy? I’m thrilled.”

[LMAO, he’s still pretending!]

[He pushed too hard and got burned.]

[Girl, turn back! He’s about to shatter.]

[Don’t leave—side chick’s about to pick up the pieces!]

[He finally made a move and she dumped him. I feel bad for the guy—sort of.]

Then, loud enough for everyone to hear, Ethan muttered under his breath, jaw clenched: “She’s just a woman I’ve already slept with. Let’s see who else in this city would marry her.”

His grip on Emma’s arm was harsh—enough to leave bruises. The words ricocheted off the high ceilings. Judge Whitman’s wife dropped her glass. The room, just thawing, turned cold again—like someone had thrown open the windows to that howling blizzard.

The comment feed glitched, then flooded with outrage:

[Did he just say that? This guy is trash!]

[He’s trying to ruin her life—WTF.]

[I want to dropkick him into next week.]

[He still loves her, but this is twisted.]

[No excuses. Girl, you were right to dump him.]

[No excuses. Girl, you were right to dump him.]

[No excuses. Girl, you were right to dump him.]

The comments flipped faster than a trending TikTok. The tide turned; now everyone was apologizing to me.

But my eighteenth birthday was ruined—cake uncut, toast unspoken, no first dance. I stood frozen in my Louboutins as the ladies around me gave worried glances—the kind reserved for fresh widows.

They trusted me, had known me since my days in the club nursery. But reputation in our world is everything—a single rumor, an Instagram story, and suddenly you’re tainted for life.