My fiancée left me, and a week later, she showed up on my father’s arm, ready to marry him. I felt betrayed by both of them. However, at the wedding, my intoxicated

Guests stood up too quickly, eager to escape. Conversations started in hushed, uncomfortable tones. Chloe slipped out through a side door without meeting anyone’s eyes.

My father? He went straight to the bar.

Of course he did.

I was ready to leave too. I had already crossed half the room—past wilting decorations and untouched champagne—when I heard his voice.

“Leaving so soon?”

His hand clamped onto my arm.

“I’ve seen enough,” I said coldly. “You’ve both had your fun.”

He leaned closer, his breath heavy with alcohol. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

I frowned. “Get what?”

“What she did for you.”