The taxi idled at the curb while I fired off survival texts. To Josie: “I’m on my way—see you soon.” Short, sweet, no dramatics. She’d get the full Broadway production when I arrived.

To Caleb, something more complicated: “It’s over. I’m heading to Josie’s today. Please humor my father and clear out—you can, too.”

His response came before I’d even buckled my seatbelt: “Already packing. Tokyo’s waiting.”

The words that made my chest crack open with something dangerous like hope.

The next few days were a masterclass in watching your life become tabloid fodder.

Gunther’s terse press release—”The Wallace and Harris families have mutually decided to end the engagement between their children”—was like throwing chum to sharks.

Every gossip rag, blog, and bored housewife with a Twitter account had opinions about the Wallace heiress and her failed arrangement.

My phone became a battlefield of notifications. Reporters wanted statements. TV producers wanted exclusive interviews. Magazine editors promised to let me “tell my side.”

Even my high school newspaper reached out, probably hoping for a “Where Are They Now?” piece subtitled “In Complete Fucking Shambles.”

“You need to control this narrative,” Josie announced, scrolling through the headlines on her phone. “‘Socialite’s Wedding Cancelled: Cold Feet or Daddy Issues?’ Jesus, they’re not even trying to be subtle.”

“What about this one?” I held up my phone. “‘Harris Heir Heartbroken by Wallace’s Wild Ways.’ They literally used alliteration.”

Anthony texted that afternoon: “My publicist is having a stroke. Want to do a joint interview? Unified front and all that?”

I showed Josie the message. She grinned like a shark sensing blood. “Do it. But make it good. Make it so fucking sincere that your parents choke on their morning coffee.”

Which is how I found myself in a green room three days later, watching Anthony nervously adjust his tie while a makeup artist tried to powder away his anxiety sweats.

“You good?” I asked, oddly protective of my former fake fiancé.

“Peachy. Just about to go on national television and explain why I’m not marrying you. My mother’s already had two panic attacks and a martini.”

“Only two? Those are rookie numbers.”

He laughed, tension breaking slightly. “Thanks for doing this. For all of it, actually. The fake dating, the mutual destruction, the—”

“The angry sex in my father’s study that got me disowned?”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” He winced. “Though technically, you started it.”

“And you finished it. Very efficiently, if memory serves.”

We were still laughing when they called us to set, which was probably why the interview went so well. Two kids refusing to take their inherited trauma seriously, turning arranged marriage into a comedy special.

“So, you both decided to call off the wedding?” The host leaned forward with practiced concern, probably hoping for tears or a dramatic revelation.

“We realized we wanted different things,” Anthony said smoothly. “Mikaela deserves someone who sees her as more than a business arrangement.”

“And Anthony deserves someone who doesn’t view marriage as a hostage situation,” I added, earning a genuine smile from him.

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