Chapter 8

Abby’s POV

Matteo lowered his head, leaning in so close I could feel the warmth radiating off him. His voice was a low, private whisper right by my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Just enjoying the show," he murmured, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips.

"Really?" I raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore how my skin was prickling.

He shrugged, his gaze drifting back to the stage. "Well, I was originally tagging along with Nicholas's cousin, Sebastian Anderson."

I looked up at him—God, I had to crane my neck. He was so tall, towering over me in a way that was both intimidating and... protective. Not like Nicholas, who was just an average man in an expensive suit. What did I ever see in that loser?

I took a deep breath, pushing the thought away, and smiled at Matteo.

I held up my wrist, letting the diamonds on the bracelet catch the light. "I like it. Thank you."

His eyes dropped to the bracelet, and a slow, genuine smile touched his lips. "Ms. Sinclair," he said, his voice soft, "do you know what that bracelet is supposed to mean?"

I was completely lost. I frowned, trying to decipher his expression. "What do you mean?"

He leaned in again, and this time, our proximity was definitely obvious. If anyone was watching, they would absolutely think we were flirting. His gaze was intense, holding mine captive.

"It’s the return gift," he whispered, "for the token of love."

My eyes went wide. My brain completely stalled. Token of love? Return gift? Was he playing with me? The words made no sense.

"Huh?"

He suddenly lifted his chin, his gaze fixed on something over my shoulder. "Well, there he is."

I turned.

Nicholas was just stepping out of the main conference room, finally free from the stage. The spotlights were off him, and the mask of the devastated victim had slipped.

He looked pale, angry, and completely drained. He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to make a quick exit through the lobby, but the reporters weren't done with him.

A swarm of them, microphones and cameras extended like weapons, cut him off before he could reach the door.

One reporter shoved a mic in his face. "Mr. Anderson, is it true? Did Miss Sinclair really cancel the engagement because this mysterious man is 'better' than you?"

Another shouted over him, "Or is it true she canceled because she never loved you in the first place?"

Then a third, a sharp-looking woman I recognized from Lia's team, cut through the noise with a voice like acid. "Or maybe this is all just damage control? We all know your massive reputation with women, Mr. Anderson. People are saying you were going to marry Erina Sinclair, but the family forced you to propose to Abigail—the true heiress of the Sinclair Bank and the Hayes Trust. Did she finally find out?"

I couldn't help but scoff.

Nicholas froze, his face ashen. A minute ago, he was on stage, crying like a professional victim, controlling every word.

And now? Ambushed by real questions he couldn't answer, he was completely stuck. He looked like a rat in a trap, his tongue finally silenced.

Nicholas gulped, his eyes finding the nearest camera lens. He was regrouping, putting the victim mask back on.

"I know," he said, his voice thick with fake emotion, "I know everyone is worried. But... no matter what happens, or no matter how confused she is right now, I want to say this." He paused, as if gathering his strength. "I will still pursue her. I'm... I'm not leaving her. I love her."

I instinctively recoiled, adjusting my wide-brimmed hat and dark sunglasses, praying no one would look my way.

Matteo, understanding the assignment, moved immediately. But instead of being subtle, he hooked an arm around my shoulders and yanked me against his side, tucking me into his shadow so my face was practically buried in his suit jacket. Is he kidding me? It smells like expensive cologne and... him. This is more conspicuous, not less!

But Nicholas wasn't done. He looked straight into the camera, as if speaking directly to me.

"Abby, my love, I know it's hard for you right now. But it's okay. I'll wait. I'll wait until you're ready. We'll get that marriage license, and I will always be here for you, no matter what. Please... just accept me again."

My blood ran cold. Accept him again? Like he was the one being generous?

I'd had enough. I'd had enough of his lies, his performance, and his bullshit.

I ripped off my sunglasses. I pulled off my hat.

I pushed myself away from Matteo's chest, shoving his arm off me, and took two deliberate steps forward, emerging from the shadows and into the edge of the chaotic crowd.

"Nicholas Anderson."

My voice wasn't a shout, but it was clear and cold, and it cut through the noise like a knife.

Just like that, every camera, every reporter, every single head in that lobby—including Nicholas's—snapped and turned to face me.