Abby’s POV
News of the press conference had reached him.
He hadn’t expected me to have so much dirt on Nicholas.
Back when they agreed to the engagement, my father had his own agenda.
He wanted a piece of my mother’s inheritance—my inheritance—including that ten percent stake in the Hayes-Sinclair Group.
But I had flipped the table.
I’d called off the engagement and exposed Nicholas in front of the whole world.
My father had been the one pushing for this alliance, and now, after Edward Anderson had undoubtedly chewed him out over the phone, humiliating him, he was furious.
I turned back on the stairs, looking straight down at him.
“It is what it is. They wanted to use me. Nicholas thought he was slick. I wasn’t having it. Got a problem with that?”
His face darkened.
“What is that supposed to mean?
Your grandpa told you not to marry him, but you insisted!
And now you’re saying you’re done with it?
Abby, you’re being selfish.”
“My life, my call.
You don’t get a say,” I snapped.
“Worry about yourself—and your precious people.”
“You watch your mouth, Abby!” He roared, seething with rage.
I looked at him coldly, unfazed by his volume.
“I’ll handle my own problems. No need for you to worry. But if you’re so set on this alliance with the Anderson family…”
My eyes flicked toward Erina, heavy with a meaning that didn’t need spelling out.
“I’m not the only daughter you have.
Didn’t Erina have a crush on Nicholas ages ago?”
“I didn’t, Sis!” Erina’s eyes turned red instantly as she frantically shook her head.
She looked at my father with tearful eyes, her voice trembling.
“Dad, I don’t get why she hates me so much… Why does she always twist things about me….”
Before she could finish, she was already sobbing so hard her words broke apart—painting a perfect picture of the wrongly accused victim.
Seeing his younger daughter in tears, my father’s stare darkened with fury.
I stood a few steps up the staircase, looking down at the messy scene in the living room like a queen observing court jesters.
My lips curled into a mocking smile.
“Why would I bring it up without proof?” I asked softly.
The sobbing stopped abruptly.
“If I could drag Nicholas down with evidence, do you really think I wouldn’t have what I need to expose you running around with him?” I tilted my head.
“The only question is whether I feel like showing it yet.”
I let out a chilly laugh.
“Even if you’re not a real Sinclair, Erina, you still use the name. If you’re okay with throwing away your integrity, that’s your business—but don’t drag the Sinclair reputation down with you. Because that surname… is attached to me.”
Erina’s gasp was sharp, sucking the air right out of the room.
I took a step closer, my voice flat and deadly.
“From now on, do me a favor. When you see me? Walk the other way. Don’t get in my face. Because if you do, I won’t wait for Nicholas to hit rock bottom.” I leaned in, letting the threat hang there.
“I’ll make sure you are the one everyone in New York City is talking about first.”
I didn’t wait for a response.
I shot a frosty glance at Josefina and my father—ignoring the storm building on his face completely—and turned on my heel.
I took the stairs two at a time, not looking back.
Back in my room, I closed the door firmly, shutting out the noise from downstairs like flipping a switch.
The silence was instant bliss.
I didn’t even make it to the bed.
I sank onto the carpet, leaning back against the couch, and pulled out my phone.
My lips curled into a smile.
Right on time.
Just ten minutes ago, a newly edited video had gone viral.
Lia worked fast, but I provided the ammo.
Being a girl from the future had its perks—I knew every closet where Nicholas hid his skeletons.
The headlines were screaming in bold, red text:
[ Nicholas Anderson EXPOSED: The “Loyal Boyfriend” is a TOTAL FRAUD!
] [ CAUGHT!
Hotel Hops, Club Nights & Multiple Women!
The Video That Ends The “Nice Guy” Act!
]
I tapped the video.
It was a masterpiece.
A rapid-fire montage of Nicholas with different women—entering exclusive clubs, checking into hotels, slipping into his private bachelor pad.
Different dates, different locations, but the one constant was him.
His face, clear as day, cheating on me over and over again.
I watched it with a cold, detached satisfaction.
He was smart about one thing, though.
Or maybe just lucky.
He only ever slept with Erina here, in this house.
He knew there were no CCTVs in the guest wings.
She was safe.
For now.
As I lifted the blanket and climbed in, the cool sheets offering a welcome escape from the heat of the argument downstairs, my phone lit up with a new notification.
A friend request.
I tapped in—then accepted without hesitation.
It was from Matteo Romano.
Simple username: M.Roman.
His profile picture was just a pitch-black background.
No selfie, no flex, no bio.
Just void.
It was so perfectly him—mysterious, detached, and completely unbothered by the need for validation.
Almost the second I accepted, a message bubble popped up.
M.Roman: Saw the video.
Ruthless.
A genuine smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth.
I rolled onto my side, the blue light of the screen illuminating the dark room.
He was watching.
He knew exactly who was behind the chaos.
I typed back quickly.
Me: Just a little appetizer.
Hope you enjoyed the show.
The three dots danced for a second, then:
M.Roman: I did.
But stop staring at the screen.
Go to sleep.
I blinked.
How did he—?
M.Roman: I’m picking you up at 8 AM tomorrow.
Don’t make your husband wait.