No. I wasn't like them.
I wouldn't tear into anyone in front of three hundred people. I wouldn't turn the Delgados and the Hensons into open enemies.
I would leave with my dignity intact and keep every scrap of the wreckage for myself.
The engagement was off.
The murmuring of three hundred guests rolled toward me like a tide. I had dragged the Henson name through the mud.
My mother cried right there in the ballroom. My father stood rigid, his face dark, and said nothing.
News travels fast.
By the next day, I was the joke of every social circle in New York.
"The eldest Henson daughter, thrown over for some charity case!"
"Three years together, and she still couldn't beat a scholarship girl!"
"I heard she brought that girl into our circle herself."
The talk spread everywhere, so I turned off my phone and shut myself in my apartment for three days.
On the fourth morning, I switched it back on and found that Nigel had posted on social media.
A photo of Constance cooking in a kitchen.
The caption read, An ordinary day, with the person I love most.
I didn't bother reading the comments.
I called my father.
"Dad, I want to go to London for a while. The branch office is short-staffed, isn't it?"
He was quiet for a long time.
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Then go."
Before he hung up, he said one more thing. "Alma. Your father will always be in your corner."
That was when the tears finally came.
The day before I left, I went to the office to pack up my things.
When the elevator doors opened, I saw Nigel and Constance.
Constance was wearing the Chanel dress I'd left at the apartment, her hair styled exactly the way I used to wear mine, a Starbucks coffee in her hand. She was tilted up toward Nigel, listening to him talk, her eyes crinkled with laughter.
The moment she saw me, the smile froze on her face.
"Alma—"
She shrank back behind Nigel without thinking.
Nigel saw me, and something complicated crossed his face.
He looked me over.
No makeup, a hoodie and jeans. Nothing like the woman who once never let a single hair fall out of place.
"Alma, you—"
He tried to speak, to smooth over the awkwardness.
I cut him off, flat and cold.
"Ms. Henson is fine. We're not close."
Constance's eyes went red again, her voice thick. "Alma, are you still angry with me? I really— I really don't know how to make it up to you—"
"If you want the apartment, Nigel and I can move out!"
I watched her run through that dull little performance and told her the plain truth.
"That apartment is in my name. If you want to live there, consider it a rental. Don't forget the rent."
The color drained out of her face.
Nigel frowned. "Alma, don't talk like that. Constance didn't mean any harm—"
"Neither did I."
I pressed the button to close the doors. I had no interest in looking at either of them any longer.
"Goodbye."
As the doors slid shut, I saw Constance fold into Nigel's arms, her shoulders trembling, as if she were crying.
I closed my eyes.
Enough.
This mess wasn't mine to manage anymore.
So three days later, I flew straight to London.
No one came to see me off.
My mother was crying on the phone, my father was in a meeting, and my assistant, Glenda Coleman, was clearing the rest of my things out of the apartment.
"Alma, that ungrateful little snake Constance walked off with the limited-edition bags you had in the storage room. She took your white mink coat, too!"
Glenda's voice shook with fury through the line.
"Let it go. Call it scraps thrown to a dog."
"You're too easy to push around!"
