The champagne tower collapses the same moment I realize this isn't a proposal party. "Surprise!" Eason grins from the stage, microphone in hand. Behind him, a projection screen flickers to life—except instead of romantic photos, it's a compilation of every time I've fallen for his fake proposals. Three years' worth. Me crying happy tears in restaurants. Me calling my mother. Me looking like an idiot. The room erupts in laughter. I stand frozen in my champagne-soaked dress while two hundred people—his friends, his colleagues, some of mine—howl at my humiliation. The video keeps playing. There I am last spring, saying yes to a ring that turned out to be a mood ring. There I am on my birthday, when the "diamond" was actually cubic zirconia he returned the next day. "Come on, babe, it's just a joke," Eason says, but he's laughing too hard to sound sincere. "You always take things so seriously." Seven years. I've given him seven years. I set down my glass very carefully. "You're right. I do take things seriously. Like this relationship. Past tense." His smile falters. "Rose—" "We're done." I walk out. No running, no tears, no scene. Just one foot in front of the other while the laughter follows me into the hallway. The parking garage is empty and cold. My hands shake as I dig for my car keys, and that's when I hear it—Eason's voice echoing from somewhere above me, near the stairwell. He must've taken the stairs while I waited for the elevator. "Claire, I did it. Yeah, the third prank went perfectly." His voice carries that soft tone he used to use with me. "She actually believed it this time. The whole room saw her face." I freeze behind a concrete pillar. "I know, I know. Three times, like you asked. We're even now, right? For what her dad did to your family's company?" He pauses. "No, she has no idea you've been planning this. She doesn't even know you exist." My blood turns to ice. Claire. The name from his old photos, the ex-girlfriend he said moved away five years ago. The one he claimed meant nothing. "I'll handle her," Eason continues. "She'll forgive me eventually. She always does. Then we can—" He stops. "What do you mean, one more thing?" I should leave. Get in my car and drive away from whatever this is. Instead, I step out from behind the pillar. Eason spins around, phone pressed to his ear. For one second, genuine fear flashes across his face—an expression I've never seen before. "Rose, wait, I can explain—" "Explain what? That you've been pranking me on someone else's orders?" My voice sounds remarkably steady. "That this Claire person has been orchestrating my humiliation for three years?" "It's not like that." He ends the call, pockets his phone. "She just—her family lost everything because of your father's business dealings. She wanted closure." "So you gave her me." "I was going to tell you. After tonight, I swear, I was done with her games." The elevator dings behind me. "Eason?" A woman's voice, sweet and uncertain. "I came as soon as you called. Is everything okay?" She's beautiful. Petite, doe-eyed, wearing an expensive coat and an expression of practiced concern. This must be Claire. But she's not looking at Eason. She's looking at me. "You must be Rose." She walks closer, one hand pressed to her stomach. "I'm so sorry you had to find out this way. I told him to tell you weeks ago, but he kept saying the timing wasn't right." "Tell me what?" Claire's eyes glisten with tears. "I'm pregnant. It's Eason's." The parking garage tilts. I grab the pillar for support. "That's not—Claire, what the hell?" Eason's face goes white. "We haven't—I haven't touched you in five years!" "Three months ago. Your business trip to Seattle?" She pulls out her phone, shows us both a photo. Eason asleep in a hotel bed, sheets tangled around him. "You were so drunk you probably don't remember." "You're insane." But Eason's voice wavers. "I was alone that night." "Were you?" Claire smiles sadly. "The doctor's appointment is next week. You're welcome to come. Both of you, actually. I believe in transparency." She places something on the hood of my car—a printed ultrasound photo and a positive pregnancy test—then walks away, heels clicking against concrete. Eason stares at the photos like they might explode. I pick them up. The test shows two clear lines. The ultrasound is dated two weeks ago, estimated conception matching her timeline exactly. "Rose." Eason reaches for me. "I don't know what game she's playing, but I swear to you—" "Don't touch me." I get in my car. He pounds on the window, shouting explanations I can't hear through the glass and don't want to hear anyway. I drive. ---