My Fiancée Drank From Her Assistant’s Glass, So I Ended Our Engagement

At the company dinner, Cheryl Delgado sat down next to her male assistant.

Right in front of me, she peeled shrimp for him with an intimacy that was impossible to miss.

Then she picked up his wine glass and drank from it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The next day, I found her. My voice was calm.

"Effective today, I'm stepping down from the board."

"Also, our arranged engagement, the one our families set up when we were kids. Let's call it off."

She blinked. Then she let out a sharp, mocking laugh.

"Over something this trivial? You're throwing another tantrum?"

"Drew Dickerson, how old are you? Seriously, grow up."

Twenty years. Childhood sweethearts for twenty years. Everyone knew how much she meant to me.

She was certain I'd never let go.

What she didn't know was that this time, I meant every word.

——

Cheryl slammed the folder in her hand onto the desk, her red lips curving into a contemptuous smirk.

She wore a sharply tailored white suit today, the fabric setting off her porcelain skin.

But those beautiful almond-shaped eyes held nothing but impatience.

"Drew, how old are you? Seriously, grow up," she said, her tone light and dismissive.

The way she looked at me, I might as well have been a child throwing a fit over nothing.

"Trivial?"

My voice was quiet, but the air in the office seemed to go still.

"In front of the entire company, you peeled shrimp for your assistant. You drank from his glass."

"And you call that trivial?"

Cheryl answered without a shred of concern.

"Douglas hurt his hand yesterday. What's wrong with me peeling a few shrimp for him?"

She stood, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

"Drew, don't you think you're being a little oversensitive?"

"As for the wine glass," she added lazily, "I just grabbed the wrong one. Since when did you become so petty?"

Cheryl loved getting her nails done. She hated peeling shrimp more than anything.

She was also a germaphobe who never shared a glass with anyone. Not even me.

I knew all of this. My fists clenched at my sides, nails digging into my palms.

She was always like this. She could always use that effortlessly dismissive tone to make my feelings sound worthless.

Just then, a soft knock came at the office door.

"Sorry to interrupt. Is this a bad time?"

A smooth, gentle voice drifted in from the doorway.

We both turned.

Douglas Gilbert stood at the threshold in a tailored charcoal suit, his handsome face arranged into just the right amount of apologetic concern.

His gaze drifted between us before settling on me.

A flicker of satisfaction passed through his eyes. Barely perceptible.

Nauseating.

"Get out."

I pointed toward the door.

Cheryl's expression shifted instantly.

"Drew! What kind of way is that to talk to someone?"

She strode over to Douglas and looped her arm through his as if it were second nature.

"Douglas is here to deliver the quarterly report. And this is my office. Who gave you the right to tell him to leave?"

She turned to Douglas, her voice softening. "Ignore Drew. He clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed today."

Douglas put on an apologetic expression. "I'm sorry, Mr. Dickerson. I didn't realize you two were in the middle of something."

"I'll go."

He made as if to turn, but Cheryl held his arm firmly in place.

"You're not going anywhere." Cheryl shot me a cold glance. "The one who should leave is the person making a scene over nothing."

Douglas lowered his head. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, so faintly it was almost invisible.

The expression vanished in an instant, but I caught it.

Because I knew his games all too well.

Humble on the surface. Calculating underneath.

Ever since he'd joined the company six months ago, he had played the role of the gentle, considerate, reasonable man in front of Cheryl.