Broken Vows Beneath Diamond Dress

The most luxurious hotel ballroom in North Shore City. Crystal chandeliers cast knife-sharp light across every smiling face.

I sat in the back, three-piece suit buttoned to perfection, the gold tie clip cold as a bullet against my chest.

No bodyguards. Just an untouched glass of whiskey and eyes that had seen through every game they played.

The music stopped.

The crowd at the entrance parted like the Red Sea.

Elizabeth Montague made her entrance.

Diamonds cascaded across her shoulders and neck, stealing every light in the ballroom. She clung to Vincent's arm, walking slow and deliberate, like a queen surveying her kingdom.

She didn't look at me first.

Instead, she adjusted Vincent's tie, her fingertips trailing along his throat with a smile both innocent and vicious.

Vincent pulled her closer by the waist, whispering something in her ear that made her tilt her head back with a soft, satisfied hum.

Every family representative, union boss, and political player in the room witnessed it.

No one spoke. They were waiting for my reaction.

Only then did Elizabeth turn, like suddenly remembering some forgotten relic in the corner.

She approached my table, leaning down from above, her perfume overpowering the whiskey's burn.

"Marco," her voice was sweet poison, the tone you'd use with a pet, "I'm back. You should be happy."

I looked up, the corner of my mouth lifting in a smile that never reached my eyes.

Vincent stood beside her, hand still possessive on her waist, his tone polished but cutting:

"Leventino heir, you've been too... quiet these past three years. People are saying you've gone soft. Tonight is Montague territory—don't let anyone think you lack spine. You should wait another three years for Elizabeth. Prove you've grown."

Elizabeth continued without acknowledging my cold stare: "Vincent's right. I need time. Three years. Wait three more years, and I'll seriously consider the wedding."

She paused, then added the sweetest knife of all: "Don't throw a tantrum. You've always been so... understanding."

Three years. This was what I got after three fucking years.

Three years ago, she'd abandoned me at our own engagement party to run off to Europe with Vincent.

Three years later, the first thing she does is ask me to wait another three years.

Good thing I'd given up on her the day she left.

Otherwise, I'd be the biggest fool alive.

Vincent raised his glass in what looked like a toast but felt like an insult.

"If you still want to be a player in this game," Vincent said slowly, "apologize publicly and continue serving the Montague family. After all, a contract is a contract."

Whispers and soft chuckles rippled through the crowd.

The ballroom's unspoken rule: maintain dignity above all. Whoever breaks first, loses.

Elizabeth's eyes flashed, waiting for me to bow my head.

She loved this feeling—a powerful man, tamed for her amusement.

I didn't get angry.

I even smiled, like I'd just heard a particularly bad joke.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out a small velvet box.

Inside lay an old silver signet ring, both family crests carved into its face, tiny scratches from the binding ceremony still visible—blessed before sacred relics, witnessed by guarantors, blood mixed with wine and sealed in silver.

The entire room held its breath.

Victory gleamed in Elizabeth's eyes: "You still carry it. See? You can't live without me—"

"I carry it," I cut her off, voice quiet but sharp as a gun being cocked, "for today."

I placed the signet ring in my palm. My thumb pressed down—

Crack.

The silver split cleanly between my fingers.

The sound of breaking metal rang louder than the orchestra.

I stood, my gaze sweeping over every face like I was taking attendance: "The engagement between Leventino and Montague is finished."

I dropped the broken ring into my whiskey glass. Silver clinked against ice with a harsh, final sound.

Elizabeth's face went white, then flushed red, her voice piercing the ballroom: "Are you insane? What gives you the right—you should apologize! How dare you do this at my father's event—"

Vincent's smile froze. He hadn't expected me to destroy a binding signet in public. In our world, that was equivalent to declaring: You're not worth negotiating with anymore.

He immediately switched tactics, raising his voice toward "victim" territory: "Marco, you're insulting the guarantors, insulting tradition! You—"

He never finished the sentence.

Vincent suddenly threw himself forward like a cornered animal, hurling his body straight into a marble pillar.

BANG!

Blood streamed down his forehead as he staggered and collapsed, clutching his wound, gasping like he was being murdered.

He looked up at the crowd with wet, wounded eyes, the performance Oscar-worthy: "I was just defending Montague honor... does the Leventino heir want to kill me for that?"

Murmurs erupted around us.

People frowned, wavered, began calculating which side to take. High society's greatest fear is a "bullying the weak" narrative. Once that story takes hold, your reputation gets torn apart.

Elizabeth pounced on the opportunity, rushing to shield Vincent while crocodile tears appeared on command: "Look what you've done to him! Marco, you've changed! You never used to be like this!"

She looked up, crying beautifully: "You're just jealous, aren't you? Admit it—you can't let me go!"

I stared at her like she was a powdered corpse.

"Apologize to Vincent right now! Or I'll never forgive you!"

I slowly adjusted my cufflinks, the motion casual to the point of cruelty.

"Insurance fraud?" I said quietly. "Wrong mark."

In the next second, I moved.

I crossed the space between tables in one fluid step. No one saw the punch coming—they only heard the impact.

One hit.

Not a street brawl swing, but a professionally brutal angle—jaw lifted, cervical spine compressed, breathing instantly cut off.

Vincent's entire body left the ground, his back slamming into a banquet table. Glasses exploded, crystal shards spraying across marble. He didn't even grunt—just twitched like a fish thrown on dry land, coughing blood foam.

Dead silence.

The "dignified" crowd could only manage the sound of nervous swallowing.

Elizabeth froze, tears still hanging on her cheeks like she'd forgotten her lines.

I bent down and pulled out a thin stack of ledgers and handwritten records from inside my jacket—pages yellowed with age, smelling of ink and cigarette smoke. I threw the documents directly onto Vincent's bloodied face.

"Stop acting," my voice was cold steel. "Men like you are terrified of paperwork."

Vincent's eyes filled with terror. He tried to grab the papers, but I stepped on his wrist, bones making small popping sounds under my heel.

I leaned down like a judge reading charges: "The South Bridge arms deal. You sold our numbers, routes, and handoff times to a police informant. Thought nobody remembered?"

I looked up at several old-guard family representatives in the crowd: "That night under fire, I dragged him out of the crosshairs. Later, he tried to send me to prison for ten years in exchange for a clean identity."

Several faces went pale. Some recognized the old case. Others knew what "cooperating with police" meant in our circles—not just dirty, but death.

Vincent's lips trembled, blood mixing with spit: "You... you're framing me... you have no witnesses..."

I tore off a page and pressed it against his wound, letting his blood soak the words: "Witnesses? The blood on your forehead isn't evidence enough. Let me give you proof."

I straightened and turned to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth tried to put on her usual "innocent princess" expression, but her eyes were darting. For the first time, she realized I wasn't throwing a tantrum—I was settling accounts.

"Marco..." her voice shook, then she forced out her old arrogance, "you'd destroy everything over a misunderstanding—"

"Misunderstanding?" I cut her off.

I lifted my foot and slowly pressed my sole against Vincent's face, grinding until his nose cracked and blood poured from his nostrils.

Looking down, my tone was calm as a business transaction: "Your little performance makes me sick."

Elizabeth stumbled backward, her diamonds shaking into fragments of light. She wanted to call for help but realized no one was moving.

In our world, traitors are worthless. Especially ones who bring cops into deals.

I lifted my foot and turned to leave. No one dared stop me.

As I passed Elizabeth, I stopped for one second, delivering a final slap: "Wait another three years? You're not worth three seconds of my time."

Elizabeth opened her mouth, but her throat seemed strangled, producing only a humiliated gasp.

I walked out of the ballroom. Only after the doors closed behind me did chaos erupt—people helping Vincent, others searching for Montague enforcers, some already exchanging meaningful glances like wolves scenting blood.

The elevator doors sealed, cutting off everything.

Outside the hotel, a bulletproof sedan's door opened. I slid into the back seat, straightening my cuffs, my breathing perfectly controlled.

As the car started, the highest-level encrypted international line rang—short, sharp tones like a knife tapping glass.

I answered.

A woman's voice came through—cold, elegant, but with an undertone of suffocating possession, like velvet wrapped around steel wire.

"Beautiful work on the engagement, darling."

My eyes flickered, but I wasn't surprised: "You were listening?"

"I'm always listening." She laughed softly, like stroking gun metal. "Though they still seem to think you might crawl back."

After a brief silence, her voice became lighter but more vicious: "When do we start cutting off their money supply? Time to show them what hell looks like?"

I watched neon lights streak past the window, my voice cold as winter: "Soon."

The woman on the other end whispered: "I'll be waiting. Don't keep me waiting too long."

Click—the line went dead.

I would keep that promise.