She called me her "starter life" and left me for a rich man in a Mercedes, unaware that two years later she would be sobbing on her knees at my engagement party.

The news broke seventy-two hours later.

*THE WALL STREET JOURNAL: PRESCOTT CAPITAL SYNDICATE RAIDED BY FBI; CHASE PRESCOTT ARRESTED IN $80M COMMERCIAL REAL ESTATE FRAUD.*

I sat in my corner office on the fifty-second floor of the new Hudson Yards tower, scrolling through the article over a black espresso. Chase Prescott had been indicted on multiple counts of wire fraud, securities manipulation, and grand larceny. The assets of his shell corporations were frozen. His luxury vehicles were seized by federal marshals, and the Tribeca loft—which turned out to have been heavily mortgaged and leased under a fraudulent holding entity—was locked down.

Lauren was completely ruined.

Because she had co-signed on several personal bridge loans at Chase’s urging—loans her mother Denise and sister Callie had excitedly encouraged her to sign to "secure her place as a partner in his empire"—she was personally liable for hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. Denise’s retirement savings, which had been invested in Chase’s sham commercial fund, were vaporized overnight.

My phone began ringing at odd hours.

First came the unknown numbers. When I didn't pick up, the voicemails began to accumulate.

*Ethan, please pick up. It’s Denise. We are in an absolute nightmare. The bank is foreclosing on our house in Queens because of the guarantees we signed for Chase. Lauren hasn't eaten in three days. She loves you, Ethan. She always loved you. Chase manipulated her. We were all fooled. Please, you have tens of millions now. What is a hundred thousand to you? Call us back, Ethan. For God's sake, have some mercy!*

I deleted the message without listening to the end.

Next came Callie:

*Ethan, you're being cruel. Lauren is your ex-fiancée! How can you stand by and watch her life be destroyed while you’re living in luxury with some billionaire's daughter? Call my sister! She’s having a nervous breakdown!*

Blocked.

Then came the emails to my corporate address. Lauren had created three separate burner accounts just to slip through my spam filters.

*Subject: Please, just one conversation.*

*Ethan, I am sleeping on an air mattress in my mother’s living room. The marshals took my car. Chase’s lawyers are trying to blame me for his financial records. I am terrified. Every night I wake up screaming because I realize that the man who loved me offered me a lifetime of peace and I threw it away for a monster. I don't care about your money, Ethan. I swear to God I don't. I just want you. I want the man who made me soup. I want the man who planned our future. I know you still have that ring. I know you didn't throw it away. Please let me earn back your trust. I will do anything. Anything.*

I forwarded every single email and voicemail to Apex Capital’s legal division, headed by Marcus Vance's top litigator, Jonathan Ross.

"Do you want a formal cease-and-desist or an immediate temporary restraining order?" Ross asked me over a speakerphone conference. "Given the federal indictment surrounding Prescott, any association with Miss Vance could invite unnecessary deposition subpoenas for your personal records."

"Issue the cease-and-desist," I instructed calmly. "Make it ironclad. If she, her mother, or her sister steps within five hundred feet of my residence, my office, or Clara, file the protective order immediately."

"Understood, Mr. Ward."

I ended the call, shutting down my laptop.

I had a much more important engagement to prepare for. That evening, I was taking Clara to the rooftop gardens at the Rockefeller Center.

In my breast pocket was a new velvet box. Inside was a five-carat cushion-cut blue sapphire, custom-mined from Sri Lanka, surrounded by a halo of micro-pave diamonds.

The old platinum ring from two years ago? I had sold it to a luxury jeweler three months prior and donated every single cent of the proceeds to a local women's shelter in Brooklyn.