Part 3The Canary Cashed Out

That confrontation ended in an icy impasse.

Yet, Damian stopped bringing up the proposition of keeping me on the side. I silently breathed a sigh of relief.

Three days before the wedding, one of Shirley's bridesmaids dropped out due to a sudden illness.

When Shirley saw me at the estate that afternoon, a malicious glint flashed in her eyes.

"Corinne, why don't you fill in as my bridesmaid?"

She stepped forward, holding out a pale lilac gown. "You’re about my size anyway. It should fit without alterations."

Asking your fiancé's former partner to stand by your side as a bridesmaid was an insult calibrated to draw blood in high society.

I didn't reach for the dress. Instead, I glanced over at Damian.

He was looking down at his phone, answering emails, acting as if he hadn't heard a word.

Or rather, he had heard, and he had silently consented.

I took the hanger from her hands without a single word of protest.

The smug triumph on Shirley’s face was practically blinding. She patted my shoulder with theatrical sweetness. "Thank you so much, darling."

That night, back at the estate, I began packing.

Methodically, I erased every footprint of my three-year existence in that house.

My favorite mug, my slippers, the bespoke perfume sitting on the marble vanity—I swept them all into heavy black contractor bags.

When Damian walked in, I was knotting the final bag.

He stood in the doorway, staring at the barren vanity, his brows instantly knitting together.

"What are you doing?"

"Clearing out old junk," I said, brushing dust from my palms.

He crossed the room in three strides and kicked the bag aside. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the room.

"Junk?" He pointed at the bag, his voice rising. "The perfume I bought you in Paris last month—that's junk to you?"

I looked at him with an expression as placid as glass.

"Miss Lancaster is allergic to heavy florals. I didn't want any residual scent lingering in the master suite after she moves in."

His hands shot out, gripping my shoulders so hard my collarbones throbbed.

"Corinne, stop playing these games with me." He shook me once, his eyes dark with fury. "I told you that you stay after the wedding. Did you not hear me?"

I didn't struggle. I just looked at him with a detachment that unnerved him.

"Mr. Rhodes, I'm not playing games," I said, offering a faint, hollow smile. "I’m just doing my job. Playing the role of the well-behaved ex."

I met his gaze dead-on. "No drama, no clutter, no interference. Isn't that exactly what you paid for?"

The words choked him.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He looked entirely cornered by my compliance.

With a muffled curse, he shoved me away, turned, and kicked an armchair across the room. It slammed into the wall with a deafening thud.

"Do whatever the hell you want," he spat through his teeth, storming out and slamming the door so hard the chandelier rattled.

The next morning, Maxine called.

"The offshore account is set up," she said briskly. "The funds are fully cleared. Your flight leaves tomorrow at three in the afternoon, direct to London, connecting to Zurich."

I leaned against the balcony railing, watching the wedding planners string white hydrangeas through the courtyard below.

"Understood. Thanks, Maxine."

"Are you absolutely sure about this?" Maxine asked. "Once you get on that plane, you're cutting off the golden tap for good."

I looked at a tiny drop of blood on my thumb where a stray rose thorn had nicked me.

"I've collected enough," I said. "Time to cash out."

I hung up, turned back to the bedroom, and picked up my phone to send a quick text to Marcus:

"Please send over tomorrow's run-of-show. I'd like to familiarize myself with the bridesmaid cues in advance."