Dumping My Perfect Fiancé

When I took my last breath in that Harlem tenement, the final image burned into my dying eyes was Noah—my "perfect" fiancé—watching with manufactured anguish as the judge sentenced me for his crimes.

This golden boy manipulator had convinced me to take the fall for his drug charges, destroying my Oxford scholarship and Wall Street future.

Now I'm back, three days before that fatal graduation party.

This time, the gentle control freak can pay for his own stupidity.

I have seventy-two hours to strip away his saint mask and kick him off his pedestal—then climb over his corpse to claim my Wall Street throne.

…

The peeling paint on the ceiling of that Harlem walk-up was the last thing I saw. No, that’s a lie. The absolute last thing flashing behind my dying eyes was Noah.

Noah standing in that mahogany-paneled courtroom, wearing a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit, looking at me with unbearable, manufactured agony as the judge slammed the gavel. Felony possession. Intent to distribute.

“I’ll fix this, Ivy. It’s just temporary,” he had whispered outside the courthouse, gripping my hands like a lifeline. “I love you too much to let you fall.”

Temporary. Right. It was a life sentence. My Oxford scholarship? Gone. My Wall Street offers? Evaporated. I died drowning in legal debt, blacklisted by every financial institution in the city, choking on a cocktail of cheap antidepressants and sheer, unadulterated rage. I didn't die sad. I died furious. Furious at him for being a parasite dressed as a prince, and furious at myself for playing the willing host.

My lungs violently expanded.

I bolted upright, gasping for air, my fingers digging into crisp, clean sheets. No mold. No freezing drafts. Just the smell of stale coffee and the frantic clacking of a mechanical keyboard.

"Jesus, Ivy, are you having a seizure? Drink some water. Finals are tomorrow and I cannot deal with a medical emergency right now." My roommate, Chloe, didn't even lift her head from her macroeconomics textbook.

Columbia University. Senior dorms.

I snatched my iPhone from the nightstand. The screen blared with harsh white light.

June 13, 2019. 9:02 AM.

Three days.

Seventy-two hours before the Alpha Sigma graduation party. Before the police raid. Before Noah slipped his car keys into my hand and begged me to claim the backpack in the trunk.

Buzz.

A text dropped down from the top of the screen.

Noah 🤍: Baby, remember the frat dinner tonight. I really need you there. xoxo

My stomach violently heaved. I stared at the text. I didn't cry. I didn't tremble. A savage, electric heat flooded my veins, burning away the last residue of my pathetic past life. I unlocked the phone, deleted the white heart next to his name, typed back a single period, and tossed the phone onto my bed.

I am alive. And I am going to tear his pristine, privileged life down to the studs.

Twenty minutes later, the dorm room door swung open. No knock. Typical Noah.

He walked in radiating that signature golden-boy energy. Tousled blonde hair, a crest-emblazoned sweater, a smile that made professors forgive late papers and girls ignore massive red flags. He crossed the room in three strides, reaching out to wrap his arms around my waist.

"Morning, genius," he murmured, leaning in to kiss my neck. "Listen, I need a massive favor. The boys and I have a little mess to clean up before the party, and I need you to—"

I planted my hands on his chest and shoved him backward. Hard.

He stumbled, his loafers slipping on the hardwood floor. His arms dropped. The charming smile fractured. "Ivy? What the hell? What’s wrong?"

In my past life, this was the exact second I melted. This was the moment I offered my pristine credit score to rent the storage unit for their 'party supplies'. The moment I signed my own death warrant to protect his bright future.

I looked at his perfectly symmetrical face. I didn't feel an ounce of heartbreak. I just felt sick.

"Not my problem," I said, my voice dead calm.

Chloe’s typing stopped abruptly. The silence in the room became deafening.

Noah blinked, a muscle ticking in his jaw. The mask slipped, revealing a flash of genuine irritation. "Excuse me? Ivy, we're a team. I just need you to put a rental under your name for two days. It's safe. I wouldn't ask if I didn't—"

"We are done here, Noah." I turned my back on him. I pulled out my desk chair, sat down, and flipped open my MacBook.

"Done? What are you talking about?" He took a step forward, his voice lowering into that manipulative, soothing register he used whenever I got 'too emotional'. "Did I do something? Talk to me."

"I have a quant trading algorithm to compile." I pulled up my Python environment, my fingers hitting the keys with machine-gun precision. I didn't look back. "Close the door on your way out."

"Ivy, you're being irrational. You know I need this sorted today."

"Good luck with that. Out."

I heard his sharp intake of breath. The air behind me practically vibrated with his confusion and rising panic. He thrived on control, on my endless well of empathy. Giving him nothing was like cutting his oxygen line.

He stood there for ten agonizing seconds, waiting for me to crack. I didn't pause my typing. I opened a new tab, found the shared bank account we used for 'future wedding funds', and immediately initiated a full withdrawal of my fifty percent.

Finally, he scoffed. "Fine. We'll talk when you drop this attitude."

The door slammed shut.

I stopped typing. The withdrawal transfer confirmed on the screen. I stared at the blinking cursor in my code editor, a razor-sharp, bloodthirsty grin stretching across my face.

Three days on the clock, you gentle piece of trash.