My future mother-in-law ripped the insulin pump from my waist at my sister’s wedding, threw it into a bin of lobster shells, and laughed, "There. Now you’re cured of your need for attention."

By Sunday morning, the scandal had exploded across national news outlets.

“BELLEFLEUR BLOODBATH: SOCIALITE ARRESTED FOR WEDDING POISONING,” screamed the front page of the New York Chronicle, accompanied by a still shot from the security footage showing Evelyn forcing the glass of wine to my lips while I struggled against her grip.

Social media was in a frenzy. The hashtag #BlackwoodPoisoner was trending worldwide, and the family's corporate stocks had plummeted by thirty-two percent before Wall Street even opened for the week.

I was discharged from the hospital on Sunday afternoon. Liam insisted on driving me back to my apartment in Queens—the small, modest place I had rented before Grant convinced me to move into his sterile suburban townhouse under the guise of "preparing for our future."

As we walked up the steps to my front door, a sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb.

Grant stepped out of the passenger seat, looking exhausted and desperate. He jogged up the steps, holding a small velvet box in his hand.

"Elena, wait," Grant pleaded, blocking the doorway. "Please, just listen to me for two minutes."

Liam stepped between us instantly, his hand resting casually near his jacket pocket where his federal credentials hung. "Step back, Mr. Blackwood."

"I'm talking to my fiancée," Grant snapped, though he wisely kept his distance from Liam. He turned his desperate gaze back to me. "Elena, I talked to Mom's lawyers this morning. If you sign an affidavit stating that the wine was a tragic mix-up and that you suffer from severe fainting spells due to your diabetes, the D.A. will drop the charges against her. She’ll be released by tonight."

I looked at Grant, feeling a profound, liberating sense of pity.

"You really still don't get it, do you, Grant?" I asked quietly.

"Get what?" he demanded, his voice rising in frustration. "That my family name is worth more than your bruised ego? Yes! We live in a different world than you do, Elena! You were supposed to assimilate into that world, not tear it down because my mother was rude to you!"

I reached up to my left ring finger.

The three-carat diamond ring Grant had given me—the ring that came with endless conditions, criticisms, and chains—slid off my skin with surprising ease.

I held it out and dropped it squarely into his palm, curling his fingers over the cold metal.

"We are done, Grant," I said, my voice steady and unwavering. "And if your mother spends the rest of her life behind bars, it will be because she earned every single day of it."

Grant stared down at the ring in his hand, his mouth parting in shock. For the first time, he realized that I wasn't bluffing, that the leash he and his mother had held over me for five years was gone forever.

"You'll regret this," he stammered, his voice shaking with impotent rage. "You're nothing without us. You'll crawl back begging for help within a month."