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I spent a whole year trying to melt my billionaire husband’s icy heart, carefully planning our grand wedding reception.
Then a trending news alert popped up: Augustine was spotted at the airport, intimately holding his childhood sweetheart, Bianca.
When I frantically called him, he declined it and sent a cold text.
“Don’t call.”
At the family estate, he didn’t even acknowledge my existence. Instead, he announced that our wedding reception was canceled.
“Bianca and I discussed it,” he stated flatly, as if she were the real wife.
His aristocratic family just sneered at me. His aunt called me a classless gold digger, and his grandmother demanded I endure the humiliation to protect their public image.
They even moved Bianca into our penthouse, redecorating the suite for her while I was barred from his office.
For a year, I gave up my career and dreams, desperately molding myself into the perfect Mrs. Rhodes.
I thought my devotion would eventually earn his respect, but to them, I was just a pathetic, temporary replacement keeping the seat warm.
When I saw he had completely blocked me on social media, erasing me with a single click, my heart finally died.
I didn’t cry or beg for his affection anymore.
I packed my bags, walked out of that suffocating gilded cage, and sent him a simple text.
“Let’s get a divorce.”
I am done playing the tragic clown. This time, I’m taking my life back.
Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Watch Me Shine Chapter 1
“Mr. Rhodes’s family crest will be hand-carved by a Michelin three-star chef.”
The wedding planner, Mr. Price, gestured toward an illustration of an elaborate ice sculpture. His voice was slick with a practiced reverence that made Eve’s stomach tighten.
She sat alone at a long polished table in the Vera Wang VIP suite. Spread before her were blueprints for a life she was supposed to want: samples of “ocean heart” themed china, photos of white roses flown in from France, fabric swatches for tablecloths.
Across from her, an empty velvet chair seemed to mock her. It was where Augustine was supposed to be.
“It looks perfect,” Eve said, forcing a smile that felt brittle on her lips. “Let’s go with that plan.”
Mr. Price glanced at the Patek Philippe on his wrist. “Will Mr. Rhodes be joining us today? There are a few seating arrangements for the guests that require his personal confirmation.”
Eve’s fingers tightened around her porcelain coffee cup. The heat did nothing to warm them. “He has an international conference call. He couldn’t get away.”
The lie was smooth, practiced.
“I can decide on the seating,” she added, her voice quiet but firm.
A flicker of understanding—and something like pity—crossed Mr. Price’s face before it was masked by a professional smile. “Of course. You are the lady of the house.”
He said the words, but his hand subtly pushed a guest list marked “Top Priority” to the center of the table. The message was clear. Some decisions were above her pay grade.
Eve’s gaze swept over the names. Vanderbilt. Rockefeller. The weight of centuries of old money pressed down on her. The air in the room felt thin.
She took a slow breath and began. “The Astors will be at table three, with the Carnegies. They summer together.”
She moved through the list, her memory sharp, her arrangements flawless. Mr. Price’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
Two hours later, every detail was finalized. Augustine’s phone had gone unanswered the entire time.
Then, a text.
I’m busy. You decide.
The words were cold, efficient. A tiny, sharp pain pierced through the numbness in her chest.
She typed out a reply: Okay. Rest early.
Her thumb hovered over the send button. The sentence looked pathetic. Needy.
She deleted it.
OK.
She hit send.
Outside, the cool New York evening air was a welcome shock to her skin. She dismissed the driver, needing to walk, to feel the hard pavement under her feet.
Fifth Avenue’s glittering windows showcased jewels and gowns, each one a silent testament to a fantasy she was failing to live.
She ducked into a small café, the warmth a temporary comfort. Her phone buzzed. It was her best friend, Chloe Hayes.
You okay, honey? Don’t wear yourself out.
Eve typed back a smiling emoji. I’m fine. Everything’s going smoothly.
She opened her news app, scrolling to the finance section. It was one of the few ways she tried to understand Augustine’s world.
A push notification flashed across the top of her screen. An entertainment headline.
Billionaire Augustine Rhodes, Wedding Imminent, Spotted with Mystery Blonde at Airport!
Her breath caught. It had to be a mistake. Clickbait.
She tapped the link.
The air left her lungs. Her blood turned to ice.
The photo was brutally clear. Augustine, in the VIP airport terminal, wearing the dark grey overcoat she had picked out for him that morning. But he wasn’t wearing the tie she’d matched with it.
He was angled slightly, shielding a woman from the imagined press. His hand rested on the small of her back, a gesture of casual, confident possession.
The woman, a cascade of brilliant blonde hair, wore sunglasses but her smile was radiant. She was pressed against his side, a perfect fit.
Eve knew her instantly. Bianca Cherry.
Augustine’s childhood sweetheart. The one the Rhodes family had always wanted for him. The one who had left for Paris three years ago.
The caption beneath the photo read: A source reveals Ms. Cherry’s return may be to reclaim what was rightfully hers.
The warm café air grew thin, suffocating. A wave of dizziness washed over her. The phone slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the small table.
Heads turned. Eve didn’t notice. Her world had shrunk to that single, damning photograph and the words: reclaim what was rightfully hers.
She scrambled to her feet, grabbing her purse and phone, and stumbled out of the café, desperate to escape the unseen eyes, the silent judgment.
She dialed Augustine’s number.
This time, it didn’t just ring.
It was declined.
A second later, a text from him appeared.
Don’t call.
Eve stood frozen on the bustling sidewalk, the city’s vibrant life a blur of noise and light. She was a clown in a tragedy only she was performing in.
She remembered their wedding day, a year ago. The contract. “Our marriage is a business arrangement,” he had told her, his blue eyes as cold as a winter sky. “Don’t have any expectations of me.”
She had been so naive, thinking she could melt the ice.
Now she understood. The ice wasn’t meant to be melted. His spring just belonged to someone else.
Her phone rang again. The caller ID read: Mrs. Davis. The housekeeper.
Her hand trembled as she answered.
“Ma’am?” Mrs. Davis’s voice was hesitant. “Will you be returning for dinner? Mr. Rhodes… he will not be coming home tonight either.”
Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Watch Me Shine Chapter 2
The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the silent air. Eve sat on the sprawling white sofa, a cashmere throw clutched around her shoulders. The coffee on the table in front of her was cold. She hadn’t slept.
The penthouse was so quiet she could hear the ticking of the minimalist clock on the wall. The door to the master bedroom, his bedroom, remained closed. An unbreached fortress.
She picked up her phone. The screen glowed with yesterday’s news. She mechanically refreshed the page.
More photos had appeared. A video.
Augustine and Bianca at a Michelin-starred restaurant. Bianca, laughing, reached across the table to adjust his tie. He didn’t pull away.
The comments section was a viper’s nest.
“OMG, they look so perfect together!”
“Who is this Eve Clarke person? A temporary replacement?”
“Poor girl. Just another casualty of a dynastic marriage.”
The word “replacement” made her stomach clench. She shut off the phone, the screen going dark like a closing eye.
She stood up and walked into the kitchen. Her body moved on autopilot, pulling out the ingredients for Augustine’s breakfast. Freshly squeezed orange juice. The specific brand of Irish oatmeal he preferred. It was a pathetic, ingrained habit, a ritual for a god who never showed up.
Mrs. Davis entered the kitchen, her kind face etched with worry. “Ma’am, you…”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Davis,” Eve said, her voice a hollow echo of itself. “Just a bad night’s sleep.” She packed the oatmeal into a thermal container. “If Mr. Rhodes comes back, please make sure he eats this.”
The housekeeper’s eyes were filled with a deep, sorrowful pity. “Of course, ma’am.”
Eve went to the walk-in closet to get dressed. Her clothes occupied one side, his the other. A stark, physical representation of their lives. Separate. Untouching.
She decided to go to his office. It was something she had never done before, showing up unannounced. A violation of their unspoken rules.
At the gleaming lobby of Rhodes Tower, the receptionist stopped her with a polite, impenetrable smile. “I’m sorry, Ms. Clarke. Without an appointment, I can’t let you up. Mr. Rhodes is in a very important meeting.”
“I’m his wife,” Eve said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.
The receptionist’s smile didn’t waver. “We’re aware, but company policy is absolute.”
It was the ultimate humiliation. His wife. Barred from entry like a common stranger.
Just as she was about to turn away, defeated, Augustine’s executive assistant appeared. He was impeccably dressed, his expression neutral.
“Ms. Clarke,” he said smoothly. “Mr. Rhodes asked me to convey a message. He said that all wedding matters are at your discretion. He has complete faith in your taste.”
The words were a perfectly constructed wall, blocking any possibility of a real conversation. He was managing her. Handling her.
Eve walked out of the building, the city’s noise a dull roar in her ears. She felt like a joke. The whole world knew her husband was with another woman, and she, the wife, couldn’t even get past his front desk.
She sat in her car for a long time, the engine off. Her phone vibrated.
The screen read: Eleanor Rhodes.
Augustine’s grandmother. The matriarch.
Eve took a deep, steadying breath and answered. “Grandmother.”
Eleanor’s voice was warm, like aged whiskey. “Eve, my dear. I saw the news. Don’t you pay it any mind. Augustine has his moods, and men will be men. Your wedding is what’s important.”
The words were meant to be soothing, but they felt like ice water. Eleanor wasn’t concerned about Eve’s pain. She was concerned about the wedding. The family’s image.
“This weekend, I want you to come to the estate,” Eleanor continued, her tone shifting from gentle to commanding. “We’ll have a family meeting. Settle these details once and for all.”
It wasn’t a request.
“Yes, Grandmother,” Eve murmured.
Hanging up, a profound sense of powerlessness washed over her. In this marriage, everyone cared about the title “Mrs. Rhodes.” No one cared about Eve.
On the drive home, she passed a newsstand. The front page of a tabloid featured a large photo of Augustine and Bianca, side-by-side. The headline screamed: OLD FLAME RETURNS, WHERE IS THE NEW WIFE?
Eve slammed on the brakes, pulling the car over to the curb. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel, her shoulders shaking with silent, wracking sobs.
After a few minutes, her phone rang again.
The name on the screen made her heart leap with a stupid, desperate hope.
Augustine.
She snatched it up. “Hello?”
His voice was low and devoid of any emotion. “I heard you came to the office today.”
Her lips parted. She wanted to scream, to ask about the photos, about Bianca, about where he was last night.
But all that came out was a weak “I… I just wanted to talk to you.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he cut in, his voice sharp with impatience. “Don’t do that again. It’s disruptive. I won’t be home tonight. Make your own arrangements.”
The line went dead.
Eve held the silent phone to her ear, staring blankly through the windshield. The last, flickering ember of hope had been extinguished.
Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Watch Me Shine Chapter 3
The Rhodes family estate on Long Island was a monument of old stone and older money. When the butler led Eve into the grand drawing room, Augustine was already there, seated in a wingback chair, coolly flipping through a financial journal.
He didn’t look up. He didn’t acknowledge her existence.
The familiar sting of his indifference was dulled by a growing numbness. Eve sat on a sofa as far away from him as possible, her posture rigid.
A moment later, Augustine’s aunt, Caroline Rhodes, descended the grand staircase. She was a severe woman in a Chanel suit, her face a mask of perpetual disapproval. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, raked over Eve from head to toe, lingering on the simple, off-the-rack dress Eve wore. A faint, contemptuous smile touched her lips.
Finally, Eleanor Rhodes entered, leaning lightly on a silver-handled cane. She took her seat at the head of the room, and an immediate, heavy silence fell.
“I’ve had the public relations team handle the news,” Eleanor began, her gaze sweeping over Augustine and Eve. “Augustine, be more discreet in the future. The Rhodes family cannot afford any negative press before this wedding is finalized.”
Her words were a reprimand for Augustine, but Eve heard the true emphasis: before the wedding is finalized. The act itself didn’t matter, only the timing.
Augustine grunted in assent, his eyes still fixed on his journal.
Caroline let out a sharp, derisive laugh. “You’re too soft, Grandmother. Some people are simply not fit to carry the Rhodes name. If she can’t even keep her own husband in line, what good is she?”
Eve’s body went rigid. Her nails dug into the soft skin of her palms. She knew Caroline was talking about her.
She said nothing, just lowered her gaze to her lap, where her hands were clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists.
Her silence seemed to infuriate Caroline further. “Can’t even speak for herself. Utterly lacking in breeding.”
“That’s enough,” Augustine said, finally lowering his journal. His brow was furrowed, not in defense of Eve, but in annoyance at the disruption.
He turned his cold, blue eyes on Eve. His voice was flat, like a CEO announcing a corporate restructuring.
“Bianca and I have discussed it. To prevent further media speculation, we’ve decided that the wedding reception… will be postponed indefinitely.”
Indefinitely. A polite word for canceled.
The reception she had spent months planning, the one that was supposed to celebrate their union, was being erased by a single sentence. A decision he had made with her.
Eve’s mind went blank. She stared at him, her voice a disbelieving whisper. “You discussed it with who?”
“Bianca,” he replied, his expression unreadable. “She is one of the parties involved in the media narrative. It was logical to get her input.”
Caroline let out a triumphant little scoff. “Did you hear that? Auggie discusses his decisions with Bianca. They are a team. What are you?”
The blood rushed to Eve’s head, then drained away, leaving her hands and feet icy cold. Her wedding. Her husband. Discussing its cancellation with another woman. The humiliation was a physical blow.
She stood up, her legs trembling slightly. She looked directly at Augustine. “So, in your mind, she is your family, isn’t she?”
A flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—crossed his face. He looked away, refusing to answer.
His silence was the most brutal confirmation of all.
Eleanor tapped her cane on the thick Persian rug. “Enough. The matter is settled. A postponement is wise. It will prevent further complications.”
Eve looked around the opulent room. The cold husband, the vicious aunt, the calculating grandmother. She was an intruder in their world, a laughable, temporary fixture.
She didn’t say another word. She turned, straightened her spine, and walked out of the suffocating room.
Behind her, she heard Caroline’s parting shot, “No manners at all.”
The winter sun outside felt as cold as the drawing room. She got into her car, started the engine, and pressed the accelerator, fleeing the gilded cage.
Only when she was on the highway did she realize her vision was blurred by tears.
She pulled over onto the shoulder, dropped her head to the steering wheel, and finally let the sobs come. Months of quiet desperation, of forced smiles and swallowed pain, erupted in a raw, ragged storm.
When the tears subsided, she looked at the diamond ring on her left hand. It was a beautiful, brilliant lie. It mocked her.
With a choked cry of frustration, she yanked it off her finger. Her hand flew up, ready to hurl it out the window. But it stopped, trembling, halfway.
Defeated, she unclenched her fist and shoved the ring deep into the pocket of her coat.
After the storm of tears came a vast, hollow emptiness. She wiped her face, her eyes strangely calm. She started the car again.
But she wasn’t driving back to the penthouse.
She was driving to the one place she hadn’t been in a year. Her grandmother’s house.
As she made the turn, a feeling she hadn’t experienced in a long time washed over her.
Relief.
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