The taxi idled at the curb while I fired off survival texts. To Josie: “I’m on my way—see you soon.” Short, sweet, no dramatics. She’d get the full Broadway production when I arrived.

To Caleb, something more complicated: “It’s over. I’m heading to Josie’s today. Please humor my father and clear out—you can, too.”

His response came before I’d even buckled my seatbelt: “Already packing. Tokyo’s waiting.”

The words that made my chest crack open with something dangerous like hope.

The next few days were a masterclass in watching your life become tabloid fodder.

Gunther’s terse press release—”The Wallace and Harris families have mutually decided to end the engagement between their children”—was like throwing chum to sharks.

Every gossip rag, blog, and bored housewife with a Twitter account had opinions about the Wallace heiress and her failed arrangement.

My phone became a battlefield of notifications. Reporters wanted statements. TV producers wanted exclusive interviews. Magazine editors promised to let me “tell my side.”

Even my high school newspaper reached out, probably hoping for a “Where Are They Now?” piece subtitled “In Complete Fucking Shambles.”

“You need to control this narrative,” Josie announced, scrolling through the headlines on her phone. “‘Socialite’s Wedding Cancelled: Cold Feet or Daddy Issues?’ Jesus, they’re not even trying to be subtle.”

“What about this one?” I held up my phone. “‘Harris Heir Heartbroken by Wallace’s Wild Ways.’ They literally used alliteration.”

Anthony texted that afternoon: “My publicist is having a stroke. Want to do a joint interview? Unified front and all that?”

I showed Josie the message. She grinned like a shark sensing blood. “Do it. But make it good. Make it so fucking sincere that your parents choke on their morning coffee.”

Which is how I found myself in a green room three days later, watching Anthony nervously adjust his tie while a makeup artist tried to powder away his anxiety sweats.

“You good?” I asked, oddly protective of my former fake fiancé.

“Peachy. Just about to go on national television and explain why I’m not marrying you. My mother’s already had two panic attacks and a martini.”

“Only two? Those are rookie numbers.”

He laughed, tension breaking slightly. “Thanks for doing this. For all of it, actually. The fake dating, the mutual destruction, the—”

“The angry sex in my father’s study that got me disowned?”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” He winced. “Though technically, you started it.”

“And you finished it. Very efficiently, if memory serves.”

We were still laughing when they called us to set, which was probably why the interview went so well. Two kids refusing to take their inherited trauma seriously, turning arranged marriage into a comedy special.

“So, you both decided to call off the wedding?” The host leaned forward with practiced concern, probably hoping for tears or a dramatic revelation.

“We realized we wanted different things,” Anthony said smoothly. “Mikaela deserves someone who sees her as more than a business arrangement.”

“And Anthony deserves someone who doesn’t view marriage as a hostage situation,” I added, earning a genuine smile from him.

“Tell us about this new chapter in your life, Anthony. We heard you’ve made some big changes?”

His whole face lit up—the first time I’d seen him genuinely happy without pharmaceutical assistance. “I adopted a dog. A golden retriever named Milo. And I finally moved out of my parents’ place. Got my own apartment.”

“Because of Mikaela, actually,” he added, glancing at me with something approaching fondness. “She showed me it was possible to choose differently.”

The host ate it up. America loves a good redemption arc, especially when it comes with a puppy.

After the interview, we stood outside in the afternoon light, both a little dazed by how well that had gone.

“So, this is it,” Anthony said, pulling me into a surprisingly gentle hug. “Take care in Tokyo. And thank you—for everything.”

“Give Milo a kiss from his Auntie Mikaela.” I hugged him back.

I watched him walk away—really walk away, shoulders back, heading toward a life he’d actually chosen. Tears pricked my eyes, but they weren’t sad. Sometimes destruction is just creation wearing a disguise.

My phone buzzed. Camille calling for the first time since the study showdown. My finger hovered over the decline button—old habits die hard—but something made me answer.

“Mom?”

“Can we meet? Please?”

Twenty minutes later, I stood near a quiet Manhattan park, watching my mother approach like she was afraid I might bolt. Which, fair. Bolting was kind of my thing now.

She pulled me into a hug that lasted long enough to make up for twenty-two years of careful distance. When she finally pulled back, her eyes were red but clear.

“How are you? What’s next?”

I took a breath that felt like jumping off a cliff. “I’m going to Tokyo.”

The understanding that dawned on her face was almost painful to watch. “With Caleb.”

Not a question. Of course she knew. Mothers always know; they just pretend not to until the truth becomes unavoidable.

“Please don’t tell Dad yet,” I said, hating how young I sounded.

She placed a hand over mine, her wedding ring catching the light like a tiny prison. “I won’t. Go. Be happy, my girl. Be everything I couldn’t.”

The weight that had been crushing my chest since my birthday—maybe since birth—finally lifted. My future stretched ahead, uncertain but mine. For the first time in weeks, I smiled without calculating its impact.

“Thank you,” I whispered, meaning for more than just her silence.

“Send me pictures,” she said, stepping back. “Of Tokyo. Of your life. Of whoever you become when you’re not trying to be Gunther Wallace’s daughter.”

I nodded, already backing away, already leaving. “I love you, Mom.”

“I know,” she said, and somehow that was better than hearing it back.

My phone buzzed again. Caleb: “Flight leaves tomorrow night. First class to Tokyo. Ready?”

I typed back with steady fingers: “Ready.”

The smile on my face felt foreign but right. Tomorrow, I’d be on a plane to a country where no one knew my last name. Where I could be just Mikaela. Where the money in my account could buy me time to figure out who that was.