Tearing Up Her Contract to Marry Her Rival

1 In my last life, I spent three years playing wingman to my childhood best friend, only to end up standing beside her at the altar. At the time, Sinclair Holdings was in free fall. An arranged marriage was Brooke’s only lifeline, a brutal, high-stakes gambit that no sane investor in Manhattan would touch. I stepped in solely out of twenty years of shared history. I signed the paperwork, pledged my family’s backing, and promised to bail her out on one condition: the moment the dust settled, we would file for an uncontested divorce. When the storm passed, she reneged. She leaned against our kitchen island, sipping black coffee, and told me that staying married to me wasn’t such a bad way to spend a lifetime. I was naive enough to believe she had finally moved on. Three years later, she quietly laid the groundwork that gutted my family’s private equity firm. Then, twelve weeks into her pregnancy, she took a double dose of mifepristone, destroying her own body just to eradicate our unborn child. I still remember kneeling on the cold marble floor of our penthouse, weeping, begging her to tell me why. Her eyes were dead, devoid of anything resembling warmth. "If you hadn't been so damn calculating," she whispered, her voice like ice over concrete, "if you hadn't insisted on playing my little relationship counselor, Shane never would’ve thought there was something between us. My mother never would’ve forced me into your bed. This baby is the only way I can prove to Shane that I never belonged to you." That was the moment the floor dropped out beneath me. She hadn't settled into our marriage; she had been nursing a festering, venomous hatred for every second of it. Then I opened my eyes, pulled backward through time, and found myself sitting at my parents' mahogany dining table. Across from me sat Brooke and her mother, a formal marriage proposal resting between our teacups. Evelyn Sinclair was laying the flattery on thick, her diamond tennis bracelet catching the afternoon light. "They’ve always been inseparable," Evelyn purred, smiling with the practiced warmth of a Park Avenue matriarch. "As parents, it’s only right that we give them our blessing." I looked at the heavy bond paper on the table, complete with both family seals. Without blinking, I reached out, took the contract in both hands, and tore it in half. The sharp rip of paper echoed through the quiet room like a gunshot. Evelyn froze, her smile turning brittle at the edges. "Noah, darling? Did Brooke do something to upset you? If she’s being difficult, you tell me right now. I’ll handle her." She shot a warning glare at the young woman beside her. Brooke Sinclair. Twenty-one years old. She still had the softness of youth in her cheeks, her dark hair falling effortlessly over a sharp jawline, radiating that effortless, aristocratic confidence she wore like armor. Right now, her brows were pulled together in disbelief. I offered a polite, hollow smile. "I'm not upset, Mrs. Sinclair. But Brooke and I have only ever been friends. Talking about mutual affection feels entirely out of place." I paused, letting the silence settle. "And expecting us to get married makes even less sense. Wouldn't you agree, Brooke?" Brooke’s gaze pinned me to my chair. Something dark and unreadable flickered behind her hazel eyes. "Who is it?" she asked abruptly. I widened my eyes in mock innocence. "You don't know? I could’ve sworn I mentioned it." "Who, Noah?" "Victoria Ward." The entire room seemed to lose oxygen. My mother, Eleanor, dropped her porcelain saucer onto the table with a clatter. "Noah Mercer! Victoria Ward is eleven years older than you! She runs an empire—she’s practically old enough to be your aunt! You’re telling me you’re in love with her?" "What's wrong with eleven years?" I leaned back, crossing my ankles. "An older woman knows how to take care of someone." My mother pressed a manicured hand to her chest, looking like she might faint dead away. Forgetting our guests entirely, she turned on me. "Do you have any idea what kind of shark she is? She’s thirty-five, single, cutthroat, and every hedge fund manager south of Central Park is terrified of her! The rumors about her—" "She’s the wealthiest private investor in the state," I cut in smoothly. "I don't care what her board does as long as she keeps me comfortable. And for the record, she’s completely straight. I know it, and Brooke knows it." I turned back to Brooke, tilting my head. "Right, Brooke?" Brooke’s face had gone a terrifying shade of gray. "Noah. Stop playing games." "I'm not playing." "You know damn well she and I—" Brooke stopped herself, swallowing the rest of the sentence. I knew exactly what she wanted to say. Because Shane Bradley, the boy she had been chasing for three years, was utterly, helplessly infatuated with Victoria Ward. In my previous life, after I burned myself out keeping Sinclair Holdings afloat, the physical and emotional toll caught up with me. Chronic illness gutted my immune system, and when Brooke turned on my family, our firm was backed into a corner. The only person in the entire city who offered to throw us a lifeline was Victoria Ward. Before I could even step foot into Victoria's office, Brooke had found out. She had two security guards drag me up to the attic of the Sinclair estate and locked the heavy oak door. Standing in the shadows of that drafty room, she had sneered at me. "You knew she was my rival, Noah. Why the hell are you provoking me? You're quite the little seducer, aren't you? Tell me the truth—how long have you two been sleeping together?" I had been broken by then. I dropped to my knees, practically begging her. I told her I’d surrender my name, sign over every asset, hand the Sinclair son-in-law title straight to Shane on a silver platter—if she would just let my family go. I swore I’d cut all ties with Victoria Ward. I had known Brooke for twenty years. It was the first time I had ever lowered myself to beg. I thought, somewhere beneath the ambition, there was a shred of the girl I grew up with. Instead, she had stared down at me with cold, disgusted amusement, took Shane on a two-week trip to the Amalfi Coast, and left me locked up without food or water. I died in that dark attic, shivering on a bare mattress. Now, sitting across from her, I saw that exact same possessive darkness lurking behind her eyes. Brooke inhaled sharply and stood up, smoothing her skirt. "Come outside. I need to talk to you in private." I didn't move an inch. "We can talk right here. There are no strangers at this table." Her jaw clenched, her knuckles whitening against the edge of the wood. "Did I do something recently to piss you off?" "No," I said simply. "Then why are you pulling this stunt? Why the hell are you bringing her name into this?" I let out a soft chuckle. "Since when do I need to clear my personal life with you?" Brooke closed her eyes, fighting for composure. "Noah, grow up. You and Victoria Ward? It's never going to happen." My smile faded. "You can tell Shane Bradley what to do, Brooke. You don't get to tell me." "Who on earth is Shane Bradley?" Evelyn chimed in, her sharp eyes darting between us. Brooke flinched. For a fraction of a second, panic cracked through her composure before she smoothed it over. "Just a friend from school, Mother." The Sinclair family prided itself on pedigree; Evelyn would rather drink bleach than let her daughter be seen with a boy who worked the weekend shift at an East Village dive bar. For three years, I had been the shield Brooke used to hide him. In our past life, Shane was a scholarship kid at NYU who happened to cross paths with Victoria Ward at a charity gala where he was bussing tables. He became instantly, pathetically obsessed with her. Brooke, who was casually stringing him along at the time, was devastated. She ran to me, crying, asking me what she should do. Loyal idiot that I was, I became her operative. I befriended Shane, figured out his favorite bands, bought him drinks, and engineered run-ins between them. I played amateur therapist to both of them—reassuring Brooke when she felt insecure, whispering in Shane’s ear about how brilliant and devoted Brooke was. Three years of that circus, and they went nowhere. Anyone with eyes could see Shane was using Brooke as a backup plan. I got tired of the games and tried to bow out, but the financial crisis hit the Sinclairs, and that damn marriage proposal pinned me down. Brooke knew I would step in. Everyone knew I was an easy mark for loyalty, and more importantly, that I had zero romantic illusions about my own life. I used to believe that building a quiet, functional partnership with a lifelong friend was safer than chasing the volatile high of romance. So I agreed. And for my trouble, I was branded a snake. People whispered that I had played the long game, sabotaging Shane from the shadows just to steal Brooke and her family's social standing. The rumors were vicious, but I ignored them, believing the truth didn't need defending. I poured my family's network into Sinclair Holdings. I pulled eighty-hour weeks redrafting their portfolios, drank myself sick at executive dinners closing deals for her father, and dragged their name out of the gutter. When it was over, I asked for my freedom. She refused. Shane had gone abroad, cycling through shallow flings, and I genuinely thought she had made peace with us. I figured we knew each other's worst habits, so why not stay? It cost me my life. In this life, if they want to call me calculating, I might as well earn the title. Who said I spent three years plotting to win Brooke Sinclair? I was after her rival all along. With the contract in scraps on the table, Brooke’s face was thunderous, and Evelyn looked like she was sitting on a bed of nails. "Noah, sweetheart," Evelyn tried again, her voice strained. "You’ve always adored Brooke. Don't you remember when you were seven, running around the country club, telling everyone you were going to marry her?" It was a clumsy, desperate play, so transparent that even my mother frowned. "Evelyn," my mother said softly, setting her cup down with finality, "I think we should drop this. If Noah says he isn't interested, Richard and I aren't going to force him." Evelyn offered a tight, patronizing laugh. "Of course, of course. Just a little lovers' spat. They need time to sort it out themselves." Lovers? I looked at Brooke, who stood there silently, letting her mother spin the narrative. I pushed my chair back and stood up. "Mrs. Sinclair, please don't put labels on me that don't belong. I have every intention of finding a wife someday, and I’d prefer not to have rumors attached to my name." Evelyn’s smile curdled. I turned toward the hallway, heading for the stairs. Before I reached the landing, Brooke caught up, grabbing my forearm. Her voice was a sharp whisper, intended only for my ears. "Noah, are you out of your mind? You know what kind of financial ruin my family is facing right now. You’re the only one who can leverage the capital we need. Just sign the damn agreement. We’ll play the part until the market stabilizes, and then we’ll go back to being friends." I looked down at her hand on my sleeve, then met her eyes. "What do you think I am, Brooke? A paper towel you use to wipe up a mess and throw in the trash?" A dark, arrogant flicker returned to her expression. "Stop the act, Noah. Don't throw away the only real chance you have." "What are you talking about?" She gave a small, humorless smirk, stepping closer. "All these years, you had girls throwing themselves at you, and you never looked at any of them. You spent every weekend with me. You expect me to believe you never felt anything? That you didn't love me?" The hallway was dead silent. Then, slowly, I began to laugh. The sound bounced off the crown molding, rising from a chuckle into full, unrestrained laughter. Brooke’s face twisted in real-time, the smugness evaporating into humiliated rage. Behind us, our mothers stood near the dining room door, staring in confusion. I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye and looked at her. "I’m sorry, Brooke," I said, catching my breath. "From day one until right now, I have never once looked at you and seen a woman." Not in the last life. And certainly not in this one. The Sinclairs left ten minutes later, their faces pale and rigid. My mother stood by the front foyer, watching their town car pull out of the driveway. She looked at me, bewildered. "You’ve defended that girl since you were in kindergarten. What on earth happened?" I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and grinned. "From now on, Mom, my only job is making sure you and Dad have a peaceful retirement. Whatever you say, goes." In the last timeline, my father had been dragged into a fraudulent securities lawsuit engineered by Sinclair allies, dying of a stroke before he could clear his name. My mother had grieved herself into an early grave. That horror story was never going to happen again. I slept better that night than I had in years. When I checked my phone at nine the next morning, the notifications were already piling up. Mutual acquaintances asking if the rumors about a broken engagement were true. Five missed calls from Brooke around one in the morning. And a text from Shane Bradley, sent at 3:14 AM: Noah, Brooke is completely wasted. She passed out in my apartment and won't leave. She’s terrified her mom will find out she was here, so she won't let me call an Uber. If it’s not too much trouble, could you come pick her up? I stared at the screen. The sheer audacity of expecting me to play chauffeur at three in the morning was almost impressive. My thumb hovered over the block button. Then I paused. Setting Brooke aside, Shane and I had played at being friends for three years. There were a few things that needed to be put into the light. I texted him back with an address: an upscale Korean barbecue spot in Koreatown where we used to grab dinner. When I pushed through the glass doors at noon, Shane was already sitting in a leather booth. But he wasn't alone. Brooke was sitting directly across from him. Shane saw me freeze and scrambled to explain, his voice dripping with nervous deference. "Noah, hey. Brooke was worried we might have a misunderstanding, so she insisted on coming along." I shrugged, slipping into the empty side of the booth. "Fine by me." Before I could even reach for the water pitcher, Brooke looked at me, her tone clipped. "Go hit the sauce bar first. It gets packed during the lunch rush." I didn't argue. I stood up, walked over to the condiment station, and returned a minute later with two small ceramic bowls. The moment I set them down, Brooke frowned, disgust flashing across her features. "Why is there so much chili oil? You know my acid reflux acts up if I touch spicy food." I looked at her like she had grown a second head. "I didn't say these were for you." "Shane can't have chili either," she countered immediately, her protective instincts flaring. "His throat gets irritated the second the weather turns cold. You're going to make him sick." I let out a dry laugh. "Brooke, look at the table. One is a dry sesame rub, the other is hot bean paste. They’re both mine. Neither of you is getting a drop." I picked up the metal tongs, laid several thick strips of pork belly onto the sizzling center grill, and glanced up. "Weren't you two worried about the line? Better go get your own." Brooke took a sharp breath, her jaw tightening as she slid out of the booth to head for the counter. That left me alone with Shane. I didn't waste time. "I assume you heard about yesterday?" Shane’s eyes went instantly glossy, the picture of wounded innocence. "Noah, you don't have to explain anything to me. I understand completely. If you and Brooke have to get married for the families, it's just... circumstance..." "Stop right there," I said, holding up a hand. "I didn't call you here to negotiate. I called you here to tell you that I am completely done meddling in whatever this is between you two. Do not text me at three in the morning ever again." Shane bit his lower lip, looking as though he might break into tears. "I only reached out because I thought Brooke needed you. You’re the closest male friend she has." I sneered. "By that logic, her father is the closest man in her life. Why didn't you call him?" Shane choked on his words. I flipped a strip of pork over, the fat crackling against the iron grate. "Drop the routine, Shane. You don't want to let go of Brooke because the Sinclair name carries weight, but you’re still holding out hope that Victoria Ward might notice you and hand you a golden parachute. You knew I had no romantic interest in Brooke, but you also knew I was loyal to a fault. So you kept me around as an emotional buffer—a third wheel to take the blame if things went sideways." Shane’s shoulders went rigid. "You're clever," I continued calmly, watching the meat brown. "Brooke isn't sharp enough to see through you. But I’m done being part of the setup. After today, lose my number." A single tear spilled over Shane’s lashes. "Noah... is that really what you think of me? Am I really that awful in your eyes?" Before I could reply, a sharp clatter hit the marble table. Brooke was standing over us, her hands trembling with rage. The two sauce dishes she had brought back slammed down so hard that dark soy sauce splashed across the front of my white button-down. She immediately stepped between us, shielding Shane behind her shoulder, glaring at me like I was a threat. "Noah Mercer! What the hell did you just say to him?" I reached into the metal dispenser, pulled out a napkin, and dabbed at the stain on my chest. It had already soaked into the cotton, an ugly, permanent brown mark. "You've got it backward, Brooke," I said evenly. "I was just telling him to leave me out of your mess." The stain wasn't coming out. I balled up the napkin, tossed it onto the table, and slid out of the booth. "Have a nice life, both of you. Don't contact me again." I walked out, took a cab home, scrubbed the smell of smoke and soy sauce off my skin, and ate two massive bowls of rice with leftover brisket from the fridge. By two o'clock, I was stretched out on the living room sofa in my sweatpants, watching reruns of an old sitcom and letting my brain rot in peace. Around three, the front door swung open. Our housekeeper looked up, startled. "Mr. and Mrs. Mercer? You’re back early? And you brought... a guest?" I sat up, peering over the back of the couch. Parked in our circular driveway was a brand-new, jet-black Rolls-Royce Cullinan. A second later, the front door opened fully, and a woman stepped into the foyer. She was petite, barely reaching five-foot-three, wearing an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that made her look like she owned the city block. Beneath dark, sleek hair was an exquisite, heart-shaped face dominated by large, innocent almond eyes that masked an intellect sharp enough to sever bone. Victoria Ward. My father walked in behind her, looking utterly bewildered. "Ms. Ward, please, we can discuss the terms in my study—" He caught sight of me lounging on the sofa in oversized flannel, and his face turned bright red. "Noah! Good lord. Ms. Ward, this is my son, Noah... Noah, this is Ms. Victoria Ward." Victoria stopped. Her gaze locked onto mine, and the severe, icy mask she wore in financial magazines vanished into an open, radiant smile. "I know who he is," she said softly, her voice rich and melodic. "In fact, I'm only here because of him." I froze. My mother hovered near the kitchen archway, unusually silent, watching the scene unfold with an expression that bordered on reverent terror. Victoria took a step toward the living room, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Since you took the initiative to confess your feelings yesterday, Noah, I figured it was only fair that I take the lead on the rest." My brain short-circuited. "What?" Victoria looked at me with an expression so tender, so completely unguarded, that it knocked the air from my lungs. "I'm here to ask your parents for your hand in marriage." Before I could form a coherent sentence, Victoria had followed my father into the study, closing the French doors behind them. My mother darted over, gave me a sharp poke in the ribs, and whispered, "Let's see how you dig yourself out of this one," before scurrying off to prepare an espresso tray. The study doors weren't latching properly. Through the crack, Victoria's calm, measured voice drifted into the hallway. Five brownstones in the West Village. Two commercial developments in Midtown. A liquid trust valued in the eight figures. No prenuptial agreement. And a five percent voting stake in Ward Enterprises. The longer I listened, the wider my eyes became. When Victoria glanced out through the glass panes of the door and caught me staring, she didn't look like a titan of industry. She looked like a woman who had just won the lottery, offering me a shy, triumphant wink. A terrifying thought crossed my mind: She actually likes me. By the time my father walked her out an hour later, my mother’s smile was practically stretching from ear to ear. As the Cullinan pulled away, my mother grabbed my arm, her eyes shining. "Noah, you were right. Eleven years older is brilliant. The woman knows how to treat a husband!" My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an unknown number, but the text was immediate: Noah, if any of the terms make you uncomfortable, we can change them. Just please don't say no. The raw vulnerability in the message was staggering. A second later, another notification popped up—this one from Brooke. Shane is an emotional wreck because of you. I'm taking him upstate for a few days to clear his head. If you come to your senses and want to apologize, call me. We don't have to ruin twenty years of friendship over a fight. I rolled my eyes and blocked her number on the spot. Over the next seventy-two hours, Victoria Ward redefined the concept of aggressive courtship. Every morning at dawn, two discreet sedans pulled up outside our gate. When our groundskeeper went out to collect the morning papers, he nearly had a stroke finding four men in bespoke dark suits standing at attention, holding luxury garment bags and ribboned boxes. Custom-tailored Zegna suits. Rare first-edition art books from Christie’s. Artisanal pastries from a bakery in SoHo that had a four-month waiting list. My father loved vintage Bordeaux; she had three crates of unreleased Grand Cru flown in from an estate in Pauillac. My mother collected antique jewelry; couriers arrived bearing velvet boxes containing vintage Cartier brooches and Art Deco diamond bracelets. I finally texted her to tell her to rein it in. It looks like you're paying off a mob hit. Her reply came back within seconds: Do you not like them? I'm sorry. I just can't stop thinking about you, and every time I see something beautiful, I want it to be yours. I've never pursued anyone before. I don't really know the rules. A proposal before a first date. It was insane. And yet, after a lifetime of sacrificing myself for people who took me for granted, the sheer, unapologetic generosity felt intoxicating. In my past life, I tried to be noble and ended up dead in an attic. In this life, if an extraordinary woman wanted to drown me in devotion and luxury, why the hell should I say no? Three days later, I agreed. That very evening, the Ward family announced an engagement gala at the Plaza. It was an impromptu, massive gathering that drew every major player in the tri-state area. When I stepped out of the private car at the hotel’s Fifth Avenue entrance, the first person I saw was Brooke Sinclair. She was wearing an emerald cocktail dress, but her hair was windswept and her diamond pendant was crooked. The moment she spotted me, her eyes widened. "Noah? Why are you dressed like that?" She frowned, looking at my custom tuxedo. "You're going to upstage the hosts." I stopped. She clearly hadn't read the press release. She was breathing heavily, extending her left hand toward me. "Come on. I knew you hated these society functions, so I caught the red-eye back from upstate. Just landed." I looked at her outstretched hand. In the past, I would have automatically offered my arm for her to lean on. Now, I kept my hands in my pockets. She blinked, confused. "What are you—" A collective murmur rippled through the grand ballroom foyer. Through the crowd of dignitaries and executives, Victoria Ward rose from a velvet settee. Dressed in a floor-length midnight-silk gown, she bypassed half a dozen hedge fund founders and walked straight toward the entrance. Straight toward me. She stopped inches away, her almond eyes crinkling with undisguised delight, and held out her hand. Her clear, beautiful voice cut cleanly through the quiet room: "You're finally here, my groom."