Chapter 2Playing By His Cruel Rules

The next morning, Brandon’s name flashed on my phone screen.

"My mother is furious that you called off the ceremony," he said the moment I picked up, skipping any greeting. "You need to make it right. Come to the River Club tonight. We're doing the menu tasting for the rescheduled date."

"I'm not coming," I replied, stepping into the airport elevator. "I told you, the wedding is canceled."

He clicked his tongue in exasperation. "You can bring your parents. My mother agreed to let them join us."

I stopped walking. "Brandon... do you honestly believe that letting my parents attend a dinner is some sort of royal favor?"

"Don't twist my words. Besides, isn't this the exact kind of hard-to-get game you play to make sure they're included?"

I took a slow, steady breath. "We are broken up. There is no wedding. And there will be no tasting."

I ended the call before he could speak.

That was Brandon's signature maneuver: he established arbitrary, agonizing rules, and then felt entirely entitled to rewrite reality whenever it suited his pride. For four years, I had absorbed the blows. Not anymore.

By early afternoon, I arrived at the regional public broadcasting studio where I worked as a senior host. My scheduled interview guest was already seated inside the sound booth. But as I reached for the door handle, a junior producer caught my arm.

"Laurel... you're not helming the midday slot today."

I froze. "What do you mean? Who is?"

A soft, melodic voice drifted from behind me. "Laurel? Brandon mentioned I could try sitting in the host's chair today. You don't mind, do you?"

Delilah stood there in an impeccably tailored cream blazer, holding my prepared notes, smiling innocently.

Behind her stood Brandon.

The humiliating puzzle pieces fell into place instantly. A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my chest. I turned on my heel to walk out, but Brandon’s hand clamped down firmly on my wrist.

"It's Delilah's first time behind a professional broadcast board," he said casually. "Sit next to her. Guide her through the transitions."

"If she doesn't know how to run a show, why the hell is she in my studio?" I demanded, yanking my arm back.

Brandon's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Laurel. Don't throw a tantrum."

I took a step backward, putting physical distance between us. "You have no right to tell me what to do. We're done."

Brandon went quiet for a beat, then let out a low, amused breath. "Are you still sulking over that little misunderstanding?"

He closed the distance, wrapping his arms around me in a familiar, suffocating embrace. "My mother literally told me to bring you to dinner tonight. Do you honestly think I'm not going to marry you? Look."

He slipped a small velvet-lined box from his pocket and pressed it into my palm.

My fingers acted on instinct, slowly opening it. Inside was a neatly folded strip of paper: "One Year."

A whole year without a breakup. The very thing I had begged for, wept for, spent years dreaming of having. A sickening wave of weakness washed over me.

"The show belongs to you, Laurel," Brandon murmured against my hair. "You don't want Delilah making a mess of your reputation on air, do you?"

I stared at his retreating back as he led Delilah toward the microphones, a cold realization settling into my bones.

Every crumb of affection, every concession he had ever given me, was never about me. It was leverage. A bribe to smooth the way for another woman.

Yet he was right about one thing: I had spent three years building this program from nothing. I couldn't let it crash on live radio.

When the red light flicked on, I was crouched awkwardly behind the master camera, holding up white cue cards. I had written down every segment cue, every ad-break transition, every conversational pivot with painstaking care.

After forty minutes of kneeling on the hard studio floor, my legs began to shake violently. Cold sweat beaded along my hairline. Outside the one-way glass of the control room, half the station staff had gathered, whispering and smirking as they watched their top-rated host acting as an errand girl for a socialite novice.

I endured it, hoping Delilah would at least follow the script.

Instead, Delilah barely glanced at the cards. She giggled into the mic, completely derailing the interview to ramble about her personal life, her vacations, and inside jokes that meant nothing to our audience.

The guest's smile hardened into stone. My vision began to blur, my trembling legs giving out entirely as I slid to the linoleum floor.

The last thing I saw before the darkness took the edges of my eyes was Brandon in the sound booth, throwing his head back in laughter at something Delilah had just said.

...

When the segment mercifully ended, I dragged myself down the hall, using the wall for support, to the breakroom to pour a cup of black coffee. Through the half-open door, the low murmur of my coworkers drifted out.

"Used to think she was untouchable with that private-equity fiancé backing her. Looks like she got traded in."

"Did you see her on her knees feeding cue cards? Pathetic."

"Well, you put up with anything when you're a social climber, right?"

My hand jerked, the boiling coffee sloshing over the rim and scalding the back of my hand. The pain was sharp, but the numbness inside me was deeper.

Out in the corridor, Brandon’s voice drifted through the glass.

"Brandon, why did you give Barnaby a hundred-year card?" Delilah was pouting, her voice playful. "A golden retriever isn't even going to live that long! What happened to the one-year card you wrote?"

She was leaning into his side, her fingers tracing the lapel of his suit.

"I didn't want Barnaby's time to be limited to just a year," Brandon replied offhandedly.

My mind went entirely blank.

The blood in my veins seemed to crystallize into ice.

The "one-year" card he had magnanimously granted me—the grand prize I had spent four years earning on my knees—was nothing more than leftover scrap paper he had decided was too cheap for her dog.

"Don't overthink things," Brandon said as he caught sight of me standing in the breakroom doorway. His tone was dismissive. "We're leaving. Delilah talked so much her throat hurts. Make sure you bring your parents to dinner tomorrow night."

"No, Brandon," I said, my voice dead and clear. "We aren't coming."

Brandon stopped in his tracks, pure irritation hardening his jaw. "Laurel, do you honestly believe my patience is infinite?" His voice dropped to a razor-thin chill. "You seem to forget who proposed to whom. You were the one on your knees begging me to settle down. And this job? I pulled the strings that put you in this studio."

Someone down the hallway gasped.

I trembled with sheer, incandescent rage. "I earned this position. I took the blind auditions, I went through four rounds of interviews—"

"And don't forget," he cut me off brutally, "who secured the placement for your sister at St. Jude’s."

The air was sucked from my lungs.

My younger sister, Phoebe, had been born deaf and struggled with severe developmental trauma. Finding an accredited, specialized academy that could accommodate her needs had taken miracles.

Without another word, Brandon turned on his heel and walked away.