The Ex Who Saved His Bride Chapter 2

Six months into my degree, Damon finally stopped spiraling.

He found a new girlfriend.

She was designed to be my antithesis. In appearance, in carriage, in pedigree, and in temperament, the divide couldn’t have been starker.

I was assertive, unapologetic, born to boardroom inheritances. She was delicate, wide-eyed, an orphan raised by an aging grandmother in a forgotten coastal town before coming to the city on borrowed pennies.

When Molly first brought her up, her tone was dripping with condescension.

"Daisy Sutton is nothing compared to you, Caroline. Damon went from dining on caviar to chewing on unseasoned celery just to prove a point."

I cut her off immediately.

"Caroline is Caroline, and Daisy is Daisy. Don't use her to flatter me. It’s distasteful."

"I don’t want to be compared to an entrée, Molly. I prefer to be treated as a person."

Reducing women to consumables only serves to strip away their humanity. The way someone treats an object will never be the way they treat an equal.

Molly stammered an apology, and I let the subject drop.

A few days later, the first deliberate photos arrived.

At first, they were candid portraits of quiet intimacy. Soft lighting, meticulously staged angles, captured with a professional lens. They weren't even looking at each other, yet the frame practically hummed with manufactured romance.

Molly texted an explanation: "He’s throwing ridiculous cash around to anyone who forwards these to you. If I don’t take his money, somebody else will. Babe, I’m splitting my cut with you."

I was tempted to reply that I didn't need the money, that I could easily wire her double. But when I saw the bank transfer notification for forty thousand dollars, I quietly deleted my draft.

I had plenty of money, sure. But I also possessed basic financial literacy.

It wasn't just Molly. Damon had recruited four other social climbers from our old circle to flood my notifications. I renegotiated behind the scenes: an eighty-twenty split—eighty for me, twenty for them—and told them to send whatever they had.

If Damon Carlisle wanted to bleed his inheritance to feed his ego, who was I to interrupt? His family board would see their stock plunge soon enough at this rate.

Eventually, the photos escalated.

From soft glances to hands laced tightly together.

From Damon pulling Daisy into his chest to full-mouthed, bruising kisses under club strobe lights.

Then came the shots of Daisy hoisted onto his shoulders at private after-parties, and, finally, the morning-after angles—bare shoulders against high-thread-count sheets, leaving no doubt about what had transpired hours before.