Chapter 9

Abby’s POV

Nicholas stared at me as if he’d seen a ghost. Then, the shock melted, and his lips slowly curved into a smile of pure, feigned relief.

"Abby..." he breathed, stepping toward me as if he’d been saved.

I just stood there, my eyes void of the love that used to be there. All he got was ice.

"Such acting chops," I said, my voice clear and carrying over the sudden hush. "What a waste you didn't go into show business."

His gaze flashed to the tall, silent figure standing just behind me. His expression darkened instantly, his jaw tightening with raw fury.

But just as quickly, the victim mask was back. He turned his loving, pained gaze back to me, ignoring Matteo completely.

"Abby, don't worry," he said, his voice dripping with condescending reassurance for the cameras. "We'll fix everything. As for the wedding, we can fix the date. You can choose anything you want." He was playing the loyal, patient martyr to perfection.

I scoffed. "How can you be so sure I’d ever marry someone like you?"

I glanced at the stunned reporters. "Our families agreed to ally for business. That was the deal. This was never about love. So stop telling everyone your lies." I turned my gaze back to him, my voice dropping. "There was never an 'us' to begin with."

His composure cracked. "But you were my girlfriend," he hissed, forgetting the cameras for a second. "You loved me."

"I was your girlfriend," I corrected him, letting the past tense hang in the air. "But I found out I was dating a cheater. And I have no intention of marrying one."

The lobby exploded in a roar of new questions.

I held up my hand, my voice slashing through the noise. "I'm right here. If you all want to know what really happened... go ahead and ask. I have nothing to hide."

One of the reporters immediately shoved her microphone forward. "Miss Sinclair, are you saying there's more to the story? More than just running away from an engagement announcement?"

I could see Nicholas's face burning with shame. His act was completely gone, replaced by the rage of a man who had lost control.

I know he can't take it. I thought, a cold satisfaction settling in my gut. I'm not the girl he used to manipulate. I'm not the pawn he could control. I was reborn to fix this, and I won't make the same mistake twice!

I turned to the reporter, giving her a calm, media-friendly smile. "Well, yes. I didn't just 'run away.' I explicitly ended my ties with the Anderson family, right in front of Nicholas. He was there. He heard me say I would not be tying myself to him."

I glanced at Nicholas, my smile turning icy. "That's why I don't understand the point of this press conference. Unless, of course, the goal was to paint me as the villain before I had a chance to speak. But now..." I turned back to the cameras. "Here I am. You get to hear my truth."

"Abby!" Nicholas snarled, finally dropping the act. His voice was a low, desperate hiss. "Can we please talk about this in private? Stop talking nonsense. I know you're mad, but not like this!"

He lunged forward, his hand outstretched, trying to grab my arm, to pull me away, to silence me.

The second his fingers brushed my skin, I flinched so violently I stumbled back, a strangled gasp tearing from my throat. This was the hand that had held me down. The hand of the man who killed me!

"Don't!" I snapped, my voice shaking with a revulsion so deep it made me sick. "Don't you ever touch me again!"

The crowd gasped, a collective, sharp intake of breath.

My reaction hadn't been one of anger; it had been one of visceral terror, and every single reporter saw it. The cameras went wild, flashes popping, and the questions turned from curious to frantic.

"Miss Sinclair, why did you react like that?"

"Did he threaten you?"

"He tried to grab you!"

I held up my hands, my heart beating so fast, "That's all," I said, my voice shaky but firm. "That's all I have to say—"

"But you didn't tell us who he cheated with!" one of them yelled, cutting me off.

I paused. I glanced at Nicholas, who was standing frozen, his face a mask of pale, murderous rage. He was glaring at me, silently daring me.

I smiled, a small, cold curve of my lips, but I kept my eyes locked on him.

"Oh," I said, my voice sweet as poison. "Let's just say... it was someone very close to me. Someone I trusted."

The reporters reeled, their minds racing. Then one, the sharp-eyed woman from before, shouted the question everyone was now thinking.

"Is it Erina, your half-sister?!"

I just smiled.

I didn't have to say a word. I just held that smile, letting the silence be my answer, and turned to walk away.

The crowd erupted, surging forward, trying to stop me. But before they could take two steps, Matteo was there. His big, powerful arm wrapped around my waist like a steel band, and in one fluid motion, he scooped me off my feet, pulling me against his hard chest.

He didn't push through the crowd; he simply moved, and they parted for him like he was royalty.

He had me inside his waiting car and the door slammed shut before the reporters even reached the curb.

The Maybach peeled away from the hotel, leaving a hurricane of baffled, screaming journalists in our wake.

I looked back at the chaos, my heart still pounding.

The more drama, the more entertaining, isn't it?