Movie credits rolled while I used Caleb as a human pillow, riding that post-coital high that made me feel like an actual adult with her shit together instead of a walking dumpster fire in designer shoes.

His apartment had become our bubble—a place where the outside world and its expectations couldn’t touch us. Where I could just be Mikaela, not the Wallace daughter or the virgin bride or the family disappointment.

Then he dropped the bomb, casual as discussing the weather.

“Deal’s done. Your father’s investment went through.” His fingers traced lazy patterns on my bare shoulder, like he hadn’t just announced the end of our stolen paradise. “The Tokyo expansion starts next month.”

I knew what this meant. Money talks, bullshit walks, and Caleb was about to walk his fine ass all the way to Japan.

My stomach dropped somewhere around my ankles, taking my post-sex glow with it.

“Come with me,” he said, like it was simple. Like uprooting my entire existence and fleeing to Japan was equivalent to picking between Thai or Italian for dinner.

The ask hung between us, massive and terrifying and exactly what I wanted but couldn’t quite process.

My brain short-circuited trying to imagine it—me in Tokyo, no last name to live up to, no predetermined life path, just freedom and him and whatever the fuck we wanted to build together.

“Caleb…” I started, but he was already shifting, turning to face me fully with that intensity that made my insides liquify.

“I’m serious. Come with me. We’ll get you a visa, find an apartment. You can figure out what you want to do without your father breathing down your neck.” His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “You’ve got the money. I’ve got the connections. What’s stopping you?”

Reality check hit like a bitch slap from the universe. Freedom had a price tag, and it wasn’t just the $455K sitting in my account like a patient friend.

It was my family name, my inheritance, my entire identity as Gunther Wallace’s daughter. Twenty-two years of being someone, even if that someone was a carefully constructed lie.

“They’ll disown me,” I said, testing the words on my tongue. They tasted like liberation and loss mixed into a cocktail I wasn’t sure I was ready to drink. “Cut me off completely. I’ll be nobody.”

Caleb’s response was pure him—practical, protective, possessive in that way that made me feel owned but not imprisoned. “You’ll be Mikaela. Just Mikaela. And you’ll always have a place with me. Always.”

The promise landed heavy, an anchor and a life raft wrapped in three words.

I kissed him instead of answering, because what was there to say? Yes, I’ll abandon everything? No, I’m too chickenshit? Maybe, let me think about it while my entire life implodes?

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, saving me from emotional decisions I wasn’t equipped to make. Anthony’s name flashed on the screen: Need a favor. Meet me at this address. Trust me.

I showed Caleb the text. “Your arranged fiancé needs a favor,” he said, voice carefully neutral in that way that meant he was decidedly not neutral.

“Ex-arranged fiancé,” I corrected, already reaching for my clothes. “We’re consciously uncoupling, remember?”

He didn’t press me to stay, but something in his eyes tightened—just for a second—before he turned away. I grabbed my bag, told myself it was just a favor, and shut the door behind me before I could overthink it. The car ride was short, my curiosity growing with every block.

The address led to a fucking animal shelter in Brooklyn, because apparently my life wasn’t surreal enough already. Anthony stood outside, bouncing on his heels like a kid on Christmas morning.

“You inspired me,” he announced before I could even ask what fresh hell this was. “The whole ‘burn it all down’ thing. Always wanted a dog. Parents said no—not appropriate for their lifestyle, might shed on the Persian rugs, whatever. But fuck it, right?”

Right. Because that’s what we did now.

Inside, we walked past cages of hopeful faces, each one a small tragedy with a wet nose.

Anthony moved with purpose, like he’d already scoped out his target.

He stopped at a pen containing what could only be described as sunshine incarnate—a golden retriever puppy who looked like he’d been assembled by someone who’d only heard descriptions of joy.

“Milo,” Anthony declared, like the name had been predetermined by the universe. “His name is Milo.”

Twenty minutes later, Anthony cradled Milo like he was made of spun gold and Waterford crystal.

The transformation was remarkable—Wall Street Boy had become Dog Dad, complete with baby voice and promises of organic treats.

“Parents might actually disown me for this,” he laughed, but it was the good kind—free and slightly unhinged, the laugh of someone who’d tasted rebellion and found it delicious. “Fuck it though. Me and Milo, ultimate bachelor pad. No arranged marriages, no inherited expectations. Just a man and his dog against the world.”

I watched him transform from corporate clone to actual human being, all because of one furry catalyst with a tail that wouldn’t quit.

Pride swelled in my chest, warm and unexpected. I wasn’t just burning down my own life—I was inspiring others to light matches too. Revolutionary by accident, which honestly felt very on-brand.

“You did this,” Anthony said, looking at me with something approaching genuine emotion. “Showed me it was possible to just… choose differently.”

“All I did was destroy my engagement,” I deflected, but I was smiling. “You’re the one who decided to adopt a dog.”

“Best decision I’ve ever made.” He lifted Milo up Lion King style. “Besides fake-dating you. That was also solid.”

My phone buzzed with the specific vibration pattern that meant doom—Dad’s ringtone. But it was worse than a call. A text message appeared, five words that managed to convey threat, disappointment, and absolute authority:

I want to speak with you. Come home. Now.

No context. No explanation. No “please” or “when you have a chance.” Just the digital equivalent of a hand around her throat.

“Everything okay?” Anthony asked, noticing my face doing whatever it did when my father entered the chat.

“Dad dearest beckons,” I managed, voice steady despite my organs rearranging themselves into panic formation.

That period at the end of his message felt like a guillotine blade—sharp, final, already falling.

I knew what this was. The jig was up, the other shoe had found its target, pick your catastrophe metaphor.

Either someone had seen me with Caleb, or the Harrises had squealed about postponement concerns, or the universe had just decided today was the day for maximum chaos.

“I gotta go,” I said, hugging Anthony and Milo goodbye. The puppy licked my face like he knew I was walking toward my doom and wanted to offer comfort.

“Text me if you need backup,” Anthony offered. “Milo and I are excellent at diversions.”

The Uber ride home felt like being driven to my own execution.

The money in my account suddenly felt heavier, freedom fund about to become survival fund. Tokyo with Caleb transformed from a maybe to a definitely in the span of one text.

Time to find out if I had the spine to blow up my life properly, or if Gunther Wallace still owned me after all these years.

My hands shook as I walked up the front steps, but my head was high.

Whatever was waiting inside, I was done being his perfect daughter. The only question was whether I’d walk out of this house on my own terms, or be thrown out on his.