The car pulled away. Through the rearview mirror, I saw Clark standing frozen, his expression a tangled mess of emotions I couldn't begin to decipher.
After a short drive, the Uber driver spoke up excitedly, "Excuse me, miss. Was that man at the estate gate Mr. Clark Davenport, the CEO of the Davenport Group?"
"His love story is famous all over Newport. I heard his first fiancée cruelly dumped him at their engagement party six years ago and ran off with the trust fund money. He was a complete wreck. Thankfully, Miss Ashley was always by his side."
The driver sounded thrilled. "I bet that selfish rich girl would regret it if she saw how happy they are now."
"She wouldn't," I said calmly, watching the coastline fly by outside the window.
"Don't be so sure. You're not her."
I looked down. My fingertips brushed over the faint mark on my ring finger where a ring once sat. A strange calm settled over my heart.
And he was wrong. Because I was that fiancée. And I felt no regret at all.
Gazing out at the sea, memories flooded back like the tide.
In the old-money circles of Newport, everyone thought Clark was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
They didn't know that on a stormy night when he was ten, I found him curled up, covered in bruises, outside the stark gatehouse of my family's estate.
I stood on the porch, my feet seemingly nailed to the floor.
The next second, I rushed into the rain, grabbed his icy wrist without a word, and dragged him into the warmth of our home.
That night, I gave him all the hot cocoa and pastries from my plate.
He kept his head down the whole time. As I watched him devour everything, I finally saw the desperation hidden beneath his polished exterior.
After that, I learned that his family had gone bankrupt in the latest Wall Street crash, his father had committed suicide by jumping from a building, and his remarried mother wanted nothing to do with him. He was passed around the foster care system, neglected and abused.
From that day on, I always made a point of passing by that fateful driveway.
The quiet Clark would always trail silently behind me. Every day, he rode his bicycle, like a loyal knight, escorting me home.
From then on, we were inseparable. He was the only boy in my teenage world.
In his senior year of high school, he took a yacht out for a joyride and had a serious accident. He not only nearly drowned but also faced massive compensation and jail time.
I cried and begged my father, Harrison, to save him.
In the end, my father pulled all his strings, even giving up a hundred-million-dollar coastal development contract, to pressure the police into dropping the charges and get Clark into a top private hospital for emergency treatment.
After this, Harrison continued to help Clark secretly, introducing him to connections, funding his education at an Ivy League school, and grooming him to be the heir to the Monroe Group.
Clark was, without a doubt, the most remarkable and ambitious person I had ever known.
Whatever he wanted, he got. No matter what, he was always the most dazzling presence in any room.
Whenever I looked at Clark, I felt nothing but admiration and love.
"You're incredible," I once murmured, leaning against his chest. "A man like you... you're destined to be my husband."
Of course, Harrison's actions were not entirely altruistic.
I was passionate about architectural design and had no interest in business, so my father needed someone to take over the family enterprise.
When Clark was about to be promoted to Chief Operating Officer of the group, Harrison asked him if he would be willing to marry me.
Clark accepted without hesitation.
