Chapter 2Left at the Altar of Lies

I sat frozen on the edge of the bed until dawn broke. When my phone finally buzzed, my father's anxious voice filled my ear.

"Sweetheart? Aren't you and Spencer on vacation? I thought you two were practically walking down the aisle. Why the sudden cancellation?"

I stayed silent for a long moment.

I had spent the entire night tearing my heart apart and stitching it back together. The conclusion was simple: over ten years of unrequited longing had amounted to absolutely nothing. I refused to force a lock that didn't fit my key.

I forced a casual, breezy tone. "I hate the voice he uses on his car's GPS. We’re just not compatible, Dad."

My father, Richard Prescott, loved me more than anything in this world. Hearing my flippant excuse, he just let out a low, knowing chuckle.

"Honestly, it's fine. I've been looking to expand our European portfolio anyway. If you're done with this wedding nonsense, I'll have the staff open up the estate in Lake Geneva tomorrow."

I didn't mention Paige's name. The girl had clawed her way out of crushing poverty; maybe she wasn't inherently malicious.

A second after I hung up, my phone vibrated. A new friend request on social media.

It was Paige.

The moment I accepted, without a single word of greeting, she bombarded me with photos.

The first image was of Spencer and Paige crammed into a tiny, claustrophobic studio apartment. The rickety table was covered in food—all of it bland, steamed, and entirely devoid of spice.

But Spencer loved heat. He loved rich, complex, scorching flavors.

[He cooked every single dish,] Paige's message pinged right after. [I can't handle spicy food, so he compromises for me. Even though he’s eating bland food, as long as he looks up and sees me smiling, he’s happy.]

My breath caught in my throat.

I didn't like spicy food either. But whenever my eyes watered from the heat of a dish at a Michelin-starred restaurant, Spencer would just prop his chin on his hand and laugh at me.

"If you can't even handle a little chili, how are you going to survive being the Harrington matriarch?" he used to tease.

I had always thought it was just playful banter. Now I realized the truth: he had been conditioning me to accept a life where I would never be prioritized.

My fingers trembled as I tapped on the second photo.

It was a pair of matching vintage Cartier watches. The kind where if you wound one, the other would sync, even across the world.

[This was the gift you begged him for when you turned eighteen. It's a shame. I told him I thought they were pretty, so he gave them to me instead.]

A memory hit me like a physical blow. When I had asked Spencer for those watches, he had tapped my nose affectionately and laughed.

"In such a rush to mark your territory? I thought you were going to cancel the engagement the second you became an adult."

I had been so sure he was going to buy them for me that I had pretended to be annoyed and never brought it up again.

But at my eighteenth birthday gala, he had gifted me a custom diamond necklace featuring stones sourced from four different continents.

"Those watches are so cliché," he had told me back then. "This necklace actually means something."

I had been so swept up in the romance of him traveling the world for my diamonds. I only just realized he had meticulously redirected my interest so I wouldn't find out he had already given the watches to Paige.

As I scrolled through the photos, the last remaining warmth in my blood turned to ice.

[Miss Prescott, is it really that fun guarding a man who doesn't even love you?]

When I didn't reply fast enough, her impatience bled through the screen.

I let out a dry, hollow laugh. My fingers moved steadily over the keyboard.

[I'm so sorry, but I suffered a head injury in a car crash and have retrograde amnesia. I have no idea who you are, and my memories of Spencer are pretty blurry.]

[All I know is that when I woke up, he insisted we were getting married, and promised me he was shipping you off to another country very soon.]

Paige went dead silent for several agonizing minutes. Finally, a single message popped up.

[You are out of your league. You can't beat me.]

I frowned at the screen. Beat her? Who the hell was trying to compete?

A split second later, the hospital room door slammed open. Spencer stormed in, his eyes blazing with fury.

"Didn't I tell you I was going to marry you? Why the hell are you still torturing Paige?!"

Before I could even open my mouth, Spencer lunged at me and violently ripped the IV needle out of the back of my hand.

"Paige tried to kill herself! She's in hypovolemic shock right now. I know your blood type matches hers. You are coming with me right now to give her a transfusion!"

I recoiled, clutching my bleeding hand. "What does her suicide attempt have to do with me?"

Spencer stared at me, his expression a twisted mess of anger and disgust.

"Caroline, you knew exactly how fragile her mental state is. Yet you purposely texted her, bragging that I was going to send her away."

"I already promised you I wouldn't see her after the wedding. Why did you have to push her over the edge right now?"

"This is your fault. You are going to take responsibility for it."

I swallowed the heavy, suffocating lump of betrayal in my throat. I looked him dead in the eye and enunciated every word.

"The doctor explicitly said I need bed rest after the concussion—"

A cruel, mocking smirk twisted Spencer's lips. His chest was heaving.

"Cut the crap. At the end of the day, you just want her dead, don't you? Why couldn't you just give her a few more months?"

His voice dropped into a terrifyingly low register. "Does a human life mean absolutely nothing to you?"

I sat completely frozen.

Over a decade of history. A childhood spent side by side. And it wasn't enough to buy me even a singular ounce of his trust.

Ignoring my desperate screams, Spencer dragged me out of the bed, hauled me up to the hospital roof, and shoved me into his family's private helicopter.

My concussion was still raging. The violent vibrations of the chopper blades made the world spin until I thought my skull would crack open.

The moment we landed at his private medical facility, he yanked me out and practically dragged me down the sterile hallways.

He pinned me down into the phlebotomy chair. It was only when the freezing wipe of the alcohol swab hit my arm that I finally found my voice.

"Spencer, are you out of your goddamn mind?"

The attending doctor noticed my pale, trembling state. After drawing only a fraction of a bag, he immediately stopped the line.

"Mr. Harrington, this young woman's current physical trauma makes her an unsuitable donor for a full extraction."

The doctor pointed to two full bags of blood already sitting on the counter. "Besides, we already have enough for Paige's immediate needs, and the blood bank courier is ten minutes away."

Spencer's eyes finally dragged themselves to my ghostly white face. A flicker of hesitation crossed his features, and his brow furrowed.