His Yacht Had Her Name on It

The night before our engagement party, my fiancé gifted me a million-dollar yacht—with another woman's name carved on the hull.

Not mine. "Serena"—his first love, the one who got away.

Five years of patience. Five years of sacrifice. And this is what I get?

"Stop overreacting," Austin said without a hint of shame. "She's severely depressed. I'm just trying to comfort her."

Comfort her? What about me?

When Serena tried on what should've been my wedding dress, when Austin demanded I "be the bigger person" yet again—I finally snapped.

I threw the engagement ring. It cracked against his face.

Austin's hand shot up in fury.

The door exploded open.

Julian Cross—New York's most dangerous billionaire—stepped inside, his presence filling the room like a storm.

"You dare lay a hand on my woman?"

Layla's POV

"Surprise. Do you like it, Layla?"

Miami sun, blazing hot. Salt air thick enough to taste. The harbor was packed with white yachts, each one bigger than the last.

I stood on the pier, staring at the 120-foot luxury yacht Austin had just unveiled. Sleek lines. Top-of-the-line everything. This was the gift he'd promised me for three years—for our wedding, and to make up for the five years I'd spent helping him build his empire from nothing.

"It's beautiful." I forced a smile.

Austin pulled me close, arm around my waist. "I knew you'd love it. Come on, go check out the stern—I had them engrave the name overnight."

I walked toward the back of the boat.

Then froze.

Gold script letters on the white hull:

Sweet Serena

Everything went silent. The champagne glasses, the seagulls, the laughter from nearby yachts—gone.

I stared at those letters.

Serena.

Austin's first love. The woman who'd divorced a year ago, came back to New York with severe depression, and had been inserting herself into our lives ever since.

Last month flashed through my mind. That rainy night. Austin got a call and bolted without a word, leaving me alone at the candlelit dinner I'd spent three hours preparing. He came back at 2 a.m. reeking of perfume.

"She was suicidal. What was I supposed to do?" he'd said. Like it was obvious.

And Valentine's Day. I'd been so happy when the roses arrived—until I read the card. "To my dearest Serena, hope you feel better soon."

"Florist screwed up," Austin had said with a shrug. "They were for her originally, but I figured you'd want them more."

I'd want her LEFTOVERS?

Austin appeared beside me, voice all casual. "What? Oh, you mean the name?"

He looked at me. Zero guilt.

"Look, okay, I should've given you a heads-up..." Austin sighed and reached for my hair. I stepped back.

His jaw tightened. "Serena had a complete meltdown last night. Her shrink says she's got serious suicidal tendencies. She's always dreamed of owning a boat, you know? Layla, it's just some letters. But to her? It's a reason to keep living."

"Just some letters," I repeated.

"Yeah. Exactly." Austin dropped his hand, irritation bleeding into his tone. "Look, both our names are on the deed, alright? You still own this yacht. The name's just to keep her stable. I mean, come on—you're not actually jealous of a sick woman, are you?"

Unbelievable.

I looked at this man I'd been with for five years. His logic was bulletproof. His moral high ground, untouchable. If I complained, I'd be the cold, petty bitch.

Just like five years ago, when I'd landed my first real job after college. Austin had been broke then—startup guy living in a shitty apartment, surviving on ramen. I'd given him every penny I had. Stayed through all of it.

Those late nights came back to me—me in the kitchen cooking while he worked deals in the living room. I'd thought we were building something together.

Now he'd made it. He had money. He could buy million-dollar yachts.

But me? I was still supposed to be "understanding." "Mature." "Reasonable."

"Austin." I met his eyes. "This yacht is for our wedding."

Our wedding at sea. Vows at sunset. A kiss with the ocean behind us. All of it was supposed to happen on this boat.

"I know that—"

"And you named it after your ex?"

"Jesus Christ, Layla." Austin yanked at his collar. "Can you just—grow up, would you? Serena has NOTHING right now. She can barely leave her apartment. And you? You've got everything. Great career, me, this huge wedding we're planning. So why are you making such a big deal out of a NAME?"

You've got everything.

I let that sink in.

Everything?

All those dates he canceled, leaving me sitting alone while waiters shot me sympathetic looks?

All those nights he took her calls and disappeared, leaving me in an empty bed?

That time I had a 102 fever and he said, "I'm sorry, but Serena's worse right now"?

What did I have? A fiancé who'd drop me the second she snapped her fingers.

"Change the name," I said.

My voice came out flat. Cold.

"Not happening." Austin didn't even hesitate. "I already sent pictures to her psychiatrist, okay? Changing it now could literally push her over the edge."

Push HER over the edge. What about me?

"Fine. Then take my name off the deed."

Austin stared. "Are you—are you OUT OF YOUR MIND? Do you even hear yourself right now?"

"I hear myself perfectly." I turned away from that boat. "I'm not getting on anything with HER name on it. Not now, not ever."

I started walking.

Austin's voice exploded behind me. "Layla! You walk away right now, the wedding's on YOU. All of it. Don't expect me to lift a goddamn finger!"

I kept going.

Car door. Driver's seat. Engine on.

In the rearview mirror, Austin was already on his phone. The anger on his face melted into that familiar tender concern.

Let me guess. Serena again.

I hit the gas and didn't look back.