Sign the prenup, sweetie, or walk out of this engagement party with nothing but

“Clause 4.2,” I read, my voice carrying through the open doors, “the bride waives any claim to Ashcroft-Lang Holdings, its subsidiaries, and any affiliated trust.” The quartet faltered. Guests drifted toward the kitchen, wine glasses in hand. Vivien’s smile tightened. “Darling, this is private.” “Oh, I think your guests will love it,” I said. “Especially Senator Moore. He’s on the Ashcroft board, isn’t he?” I kept reading. Clause after clause stripping me of everything, framing me as a parasite. Ethan stood frozen in the doorway, jaw clenched. Then I reached into my clutch and pulled out a second folder. Cream linen. Embossed. “Vivien, before I sign, I need to disclose my own assets. New York law requires it.” I opened the folder. “I’m the founder of Mirae Capital. We closed our Series C last month at a four hundred million dollar valuation. The lead investor”—I turned the page toward the senator—”was Ashcroft-Lang Holdings. Your husband signed the check in March. He’s been trying to recruit me to the board for eight weeks.” The room went silent. Vivien’s glass hit the marble and didn’t break, just rang, high and thin. “That’s…that’s not possible. You’re Ethan’s assistant.” “I’m Ethan’s fiancée,” I said softly. “I met him volunteering at the literacy center. I never told you what I did because I wanted to know if your family could love someone you thought had nothing. Now I know.” Ethan stepped forward and took the prenup out of my hand. He tore it in half, then in quarters, and let the pieces fall onto his mother’s imported marble. “Mom,” he said, “the wedding’s still on. You’re not invited.” Vivien reached for me, suddenly soft, suddenly warm. “Hana, sweetheart, we can start over—” I picked up my champagne. “Clause 4.2,” I said. “I waive any claim to you.” Then I walked out onto the lawn, where the quartet, recovering, began to play again.