like you
My fiancé of three years, who’d been giving me
the silent treatment, proposed to his first love
at a huge, once–in–a–decade Hollywood gala.
Later, I posted a sweet engagement
announcement on Instagram: “Getting married!”
He called me that night, furious. “Ashley, I never
said I was marrying you.” I replied, all smiles, “I
never said the groom was you either.”
Then, a set of photos went viral, shocking the
whole city. The most powerful man in LA, Ethan
Blackwood, had his arms open, letting me fall
into his embrace, and he bent his head down,
letting me kiss him.
- 1.
As I finished getting ready, my stylist gasped.
“Ashley, you look absolutely stunning in that
dress.” I thanked her and headed downstairs,
only to walk into a commotion. Through the
massive glass doors, I saw my fiancé, Mark,
<
arm in arm with a gorgeous young woman. The
kicker? She was wearing the exact same dress
–
as me except hers was the real deal, and
mine was a cheap knockoff. Tonight was the
biggest Hollywood event in years, everyone
present was rich and influential, and they could
spot a fake a mile away. For the first time in my
twenty–one years, I’d gone all out only to end
up looking like a clown.
–
- 2.
“Mark, who’s this with you?” someone asked.
Mark squeezed the woman’s hand. “This is
Chloe, my girlfriend. Well, after tonight, she’ll
be my fiancée.”
“And Ashley…?”
Mark glanced at me coldly. “The engagement
with the Millers is off. We’ve been more than
generous to them these past three years.”
:
<
He wasn’t wrong. Without the million–dollar
engagement gift, my family would’ve been
bankrupt. My parents and siblings were still
living the high life thanks to him.
Mark knelt down and proposed to Chloe. She
burst into tears and threw herself into his arms.
He wiped her tears away, whispering sweet
nothings. I watched as Chloe, now elevated
from struggling actress and “the other woman,”
was surrounded and fawned over. After tonight,
she’d be Hollywood royalty. And me? I, and the
Millers, would be nothing.
- 3.
“Excuse me?” Two socialites with plates of
appetizers looked at me impatiently. I stepped
aside.
“That dress is so tacky,” one whispered.
“Yeah, what kind of cheap fabric is that?
Drobably modo in como ownntahan “l
<
Probably made in some sweatshop.”
“I can’t believe she’s still here. So
embarrassing.”
