My fiancée's twenty-something assistant loved a good bet, and for the nineteenth time, she'd canceled our wedding because she'd "lost" to him. I warned her again, “Izzy, if you pull this again, I’m marrying someone else.” Isabella Moretti, the CEO of Moretti Global and the woman I was supposed to marry, just laughed, completely unconcerned. “Grant, you literally gave me a kidney. How are you going to marry anyone else?” She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “And besides, who else would take on damaged goods like you?” On the morning of what was supposed to be our twentieth wedding day, the assistant, Chase Blackwood, sent her a picture of an airport departure board with a ticket stub visible in the corner. It was another one of their absurd wagers. “If you can’t find me in the next thirty minutes, you’ll never see me again, Izzy.” Seeing the flight’s destination—somewhere tropical, no doubt—Isabella’s face went pale with urgency. She ripped off her bespoke veil and sprinted for the door, headed for the airport. Thirty minutes later, Chase posted a story on Instagram: “Someone who truly cares will cross any ocean for you.” I watched the post without reaction, my face a cold mask. Then, I quietly dialed a familiar number. “Dahlia Prescott,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “Was that promise you made to marry me all those years ago still good?” Her voice came back, bright with excitement. “Really? Of course, it’s good! If it’s you, Grant, my answer is always yes!” … The guests in the grand ballroom were exchanging bewildered glances. In the elite circles of Manhattan society, this was turning into the biggest scandal of the season—and a massive, embarrassing joke. My closest friends and family were fuming on my behalf. “Isabella Moretti is completely deranged, how can she cancel a wedding twenty times for a glorified assistant?!” “Seriously. Grant gave her everything, even a goddamn kidney! Mr. Kensington actually disowned him over it, you know.” Listening to the hushed, angry whispers, a bitter, hollow laugh echoed in my chest. Even strangers understood that this time, Izzy had gone far, far too far with her game. Mrs. Moretti, Izzy’s mother, scurried onto the stage, grabbing my arm. “Grant, darling, just keep the guests occupied. Tell them Izzy had a sudden corporate emergency. Get them to the buffet, please.” I looked at the older woman, the exhaustion in my heart bottomless. “Mrs. Moretti, I’ve used that exact excuse nineteen times. Izzy has walked out on this exact ceremony nineteen times! Do you think these people are fools?” Her expression soured. “We’ve done it this many times, what’s one more?” “You’ve been ‘desperately in love’ with my daughter for ten years,” she continued, a flicker of disdain in her eyes. “Seems like it was all talk.” The sheer entitlement in her tone made me feel physically ill. Memories flashed behind my eyes. Since Chase Blackwood started as Izzy’s assistant two years ago, our wedding date had become a sick, revolving door. Every time, on the day of our scheduled ceremony, Chase would challenge Izzy to a ridiculous wager. And every single time, Isabella would conveniently ‘lose.’ I wasn't even sure anymore if the losing wasn’t intentional. The first time, she lost a bet and turned the wedding into a black-tie masquerade. Her dance partner? Chase. The second time, she lost again. Chase claimed he’d never worn a groom’s tux, so Izzy handed him my custom jacket and the boutonnière. They played out the entire ceremony, leaving the guests utterly stunned. The third, the fourth… it was always the same result. Her excuse was always a variation of the same lines: “Grant, you have to be understanding. As CEO, I have to be a woman of my word, or how will my staff respect me?” “Besides, Chase was headhunted at a high price. I can’t let him feel slighted.” Thinking back, it was obvious. They were playing a sick game at my expense, on the day I was supposed to have the happiest moment of my life. Did they really think I was that naive? The nineteenth time, their bet was that Chase had one minute to run from the lobby to the wedding stage. The distance was just over a hundred feet, and Chase is six-foot-three—he could have crawled that distance. Chase took his sweet time, sauntering onto the stage, his eyes sweeping over me with a sneer. “You indulge me so much, Izzy. Maybe you do want to marry me. Come on, let me wear the jacket.” Isabella gave him a doting smile. “Well, since you made it up here. I can’t let you leave empty-handed. That tux jacket really suits you.” That day, she even exchanged rings with him. Her explanation to me afterward? “Everyone’s tired from all the excitement. We can have the actual wedding next time.” I knew then that if I had been the man exchanging rings with her that day, our wedding would have gone off without a hitch. That was the closest I had ever come to happiness. Mrs. Moretti was still trying to get me to cover for Izzy. But before I could respond, the double doors swung open. Isabella and Chase walked in, arm in arm. “Izzy, you lost again, by just one second! You have to honor the bet.” Isabella’s tone was as soft as silk. “Fine, what do you want?” Chase feigned generosity. “You’ve had a stressful day. How about you make it up to me by joining me for dinner?” Isabella’s face instantly lit up. “Chase, you’re the only one who truly understands me.” Watching her casually toss the boutonnière and my ring into a nearby trash can, I realized I felt nothing. No anger, no pain. The last shred of hope was gone. I was finally, completely dead inside. I offered a final, polite warning. “Isabella, are you walking out on the wedding again?” She turned back, looking down her nose at me. “Grant, you’re making a fuss over nothing. The auspicious hour has passed anyway. We’ll reschedule the wedding for another day.” In front of every guest, she and Chase simply turned and walked away. A ripple of laughter swept through the ballroom. The son of the respected Kensington family, publicly shamed by a twenty-something assistant. Watching their retreating backs, I managed a genuine, if cold, smile. I called out to them. “Isabella Moretti, let’s make a real wager. I’m betting there won’t be a twenty-first wedding.” She turned back, visibly annoyed. “I told you, I only play these games with Chase. What makes you think you’re worthy of a bet with me?” Ignoring the rising tide of mockery from the guests, I slowly slid my own wedding band from my finger and dropped it into the trash can beside hers. “I’m betting that if there is, Moretti Global will be gone from Manhattan before you can walk down the aisle.” Hearing the threat, Izzy spun back, her eyes burning with hatred. She marched up and slapped me across the face. “Grant Kensington, you know how hard it was to build Moretti Global! You would actually curse my company just because of a canceled wedding?” “Chase was right about you,” she spat. “You are just a selfish, entitled leech.” I let out a soft, mocking laugh. “If you two have already slept together, just get married. Stop using your pathetic little wagers as an excuse to humiliate everyone else.” My voice wasn't quiet. The entire ballroom was staring. Chase’s face flushed a deep crimson. “Mr. Kensington, Izzy and I maintain a strictly professional, superior-subordinate relationship. You have no right to slander us.” Then, he leaned in and muttered quickly in my ear. “Izzy didn’t let you touch her for ten years, but she was in my bed the first night we met. She could love anyone in the world, Grant, and it would never be you.” He straightened up, gave me a mocking smile, and walked back to Izzy. “Izzy, darling, you still haven’t honored the terms of the last bet. You promised to transfer Mr. Kensington’s shares to my boy Gus. Did you forget?” My blood ran cold. Gus was Chase’s dog. I stared at Izzy, waiting to see if she was truly twisted enough to insult me like this—to choose a glorified pet over the man who bled for her company. A flash of something—maybe hesitation—flickered in her eyes, but it was quickly gone. She pulled a document from her clutch and thrust it into my hands. “Sign it, Grant. I can’t go back on my word in front of my staff.” Her expression was deadly serious. A fresh pang of agony shot through me, but it was just a fleeting ache. I had been the architect of Moretti Global’s success. It was primarily my work that built the company. I remembered a time when her eyes were full of love for me. “Honey, the company is booming. You don’t have to work so hard. You just take care of me and our home, and I’ll give you the majority of the shares so you feel secure.” She couldn't be apart from me for an hour back then; she’d video call me even during board meetings. Now, I was worth less to her than her assistant’s pampered dog. “Grant, sign it. Stop acting like a child. It’s just a little welcome gift for Gus.” My eyes widened in disbelief. How could she say that without batting an eyelash? “Isabella Moretti, you’re asking me to sign over forty percent of my shares to a dog?”
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "390754", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel