Gu Chen
11 Published Stories
Gu Chen's Books and Stories
Betrayed By The Don: Rising From Ashes
Mafia I was guiding the blade through a slab of A5 Wagyu for our seven-year anniversary when a burner phone vibrated against my knee.
It was a photo of a manicured hand resting on the tuxedo I had bought for Dante three weeks ago. On the finger sat a massive diamond ring.
The caption read: Mrs. Isabella Gallo. Finally legal.
For seven years, I wasn't just his lover. I was the architect of his legitimacy, the woman who wrote the code that cleaned his dirty money. Yet, while I was here cooking his favorite steak, he had married a mob princess to secure her father's territory.
When Dante walked in smelling of expensive scotch and another woman's perfume, he didn't apologize.
"It's just politics," he said, loosening his tie. "You keep your allowance, your position. You just stay in the shadows a little longer."
He looked at me like I was a piece of high-end furniture. When I told him I was leaving, his face darkened.
"You can't resign from the Mafia, Seraphina," he sneered, blocking the door. "If you leave, I will burn everything you have."
He truly believed he was the King on the chessboard. He forgot that I was the one who built the board.
I didn't scream. I didn't cry.
I simply walked out, opened my encrypted laptop, and dialed the number of the one man Dante feared most.
"I'm cashing out," I said. "And I'm bringing the entire Gallo empire with me." The Surgeon's Revenge: My Ex-Husband's Regret
Modern The view from our twenty-million-dollar penthouse was stunning, but all I could see was the cracked screen of my phone. A single message from a contact named Sienna had just appeared: "Game On." For four years, I had worn the shapeless beige cardigans and played the quiet, submissive wife the elite Rutledge family demanded.
"Dorothea is back in the city," my husband Hunter said, refusing to meet my eyes as he pushed the divorce papers toward me.
He offered a "generous" settlement, patronizingly claiming that with my felony record and "creative resume," I’d be living on the streets without his charity. He had no idea that while he was rehearsing his breakup speech, I was already zipping up a duffel bag filled with cash and a passport in a name he didn't recognize.
His sister Kamala didn't even wait for me to pack before she was in our bedroom, calling me a leech and trying to destroy the only photo I had of my mother. I didn't cry or beg; I simply dropped Hunter’s favorite three-million-dollar Ming vase, watched it shatter, and walked out the door with a cold smile.
That night, I traded my sensible flats for a crimson silk dress and lethal heels, leaving Hunter’s jaw on the floor when he saw me at an exclusive club. He watched in horror as I smashed a vodka bottle over a harasser's head, still believing I was a broken woman who needed his protection.
He didn't know the truth until his grandmother finally revealed that I was the anonymous investor who had rescued their company from bankruptcy. I had gone to prison to protect his father's reputation, wearing the shame for years so their family name wouldn't implode.
Hunter fell to his knees in the driveway, begging for a second chance and promising to dump his mistress, but the anger in my heart had already turned to ice. The man I had sacrificed my life for was now just a stranger I used to know.
"The opposite of love isn't hate, Hunter. It's indifference."
I climbed into a purple supercar as my phone buzzed with a call from Mount Sinai Hospital. My medical license was reinstated, and a high-profile trauma case was waiting for my hands. Iris the housewife was dead, and Dr. Gutierrez was finally back in play. The Ruthless Don's Obsession: You Can't Run
Mafia I walked into the Thorn estate with another man's diamond on my finger, naive enough to think it could shield me from Marcus.
But the Don of the city’s underworld didn't even blink.
He called my engagement ring a "cute trinket" and introduced me to his own fiancée, Chloe, right then and there.
"Love is a fairy tale for children, Ellie," he sneered. "And you are far too old for fairy tales."
I tried to leave with dignity, but the knife twisted deeper. I found my mother’s silver locket—the one he swore to protect with his life—buried in the mud like trash.
He hadn't just rejected me; he had erased me.
Broken, I fled to Florence to marry a man I didn't love, just to escape the suffocation of the estate.
But I couldn't outrun the heartbreak. I collapsed in a foreign apartment, burning with fever, while my fiancé worried more about wedding seating charts than my life.
I thought I was going to die alone.
Until I woke up in a sterile clinic room.
My fiancé was gone.
Standing by my bed, looking like a vengeful god who had just burned down a city to get to me, was Marcus.
He trapped me against the mattress, his eyes dark with a terrifying mix of rage and possession.
"Did you really think you could run from me?" he growled.
"I returned the locket," I whispered, trembling. "We are even."
"Fuck the locket," he said. "You belong to me, Ellie. And I am not leaving without you." His Mafia Queen, My Substitute Heart
Mafia My perfect marriage to Don Dante Moretti, the most powerful man in the New York mob, ended the moment my father died. I was twenty-four, pregnant with his heir, and I believed I was his queen.
But for two days, while I planned a funeral alone, my husband was unreachable. Then a friend sent me a photo. Dante in London, his hand tangled in the hair of the woman beside him.
It was my cousin, Valentina.
He came home with lies about a dead phone and a difficult summit. That night, I found his private journal, and my world disintegrated.
He had married me because I had "Valentina’s eyes." I was a substitute.
Our unborn child wasn't a product of love. It was a project. A girl he planned to name Elena, after Valentina, calling her a "perfect, tiny piece of the woman I can never truly possess."
I wasn't his wife. I was a stand-in. The love I felt for him didn't just die. It was murdered.
The next morning, I slid a folder across the kitchen island. "Donation forms," I said. He didn't even look before scrawling his signature on what were actually our finalized divorce papers.
His arrogance was my weapon. As he slept beside me that night, smelling of lies and my cousin, I made an appointment at a private clinic. He wanted a legacy?
I would give him nothing. The Wife I Refused to Save
Modern My wife was dying, and I refused to save her. That's what everyone in the hospital believed, and what the headlines would scream. The hospital called; Sarah, my wife, was in critical condition after a severe car accident, needing a specialized, uninsured procedure costing half a million dollars.
I said no. The word hung heavy in the air. This wasn't just Sarah's life; it was a choice between her, and the future of my company and hundreds of employees. My terrified in-laws pleaded, "You're comparing your company to your wife's life? To the mother of your child?"
My six-year-old daughter, Lily, tugged at my pants, her innocent eyes filled with tears. "Daddy? Is Mommy going to die?" I told her I had to protect the company for our future, a necessary cruelty. My mother-in-law shrieked accusations, calling me a monster, flinging accusations of how Sarah sacrificed everything for me.
The crowd gathered, their judgment a palpable weight. They whispered, "He won't pay to save his own wife. What a scumbag." A part of me smiled behind my mask of indifference. Let them judge. They were watching the wrong movie, completely unaware of the real plot.
Then, my daughter held out her pink piggy bank, offering all she had. "Daddy, I have money. You can use my money to save Mommy." I knew this was the part I dreaded most, the collateral damage of a wicked plan. This entire tragic drama was meticulously orchestrated, but not by me. And I was about to expose every single one of them. From Appalachian Dirt To Tech Heiress
Modern My first life ended abruptly, with the screech of tires and the brutal impact of a car driven by my younger sister, Stella.
I had always been the compliant one, funding her endless "mistakes" and even giving her the man I loved, Matthew.
As I lay dying, the last thing I heard wasn't an apology, but my parents' voices telling the police, "She was the older sister; she should have been more understanding."
Their words, not the collision, were the ultimate betrayal.
Then, darkness. But not oblivion.
I woke up, seventeen again, surrounded by the familiar scent of pine and damp earth in our Appalachian home.
The horrifying map of my future, burned into my memory, was now a chance for a different path.
This time, I would never again seek their love. This time, I would live only for myself. The Pentagon's Fury
Billionaires My life was perfect. I had a loving husband, Andrew, and our bright, energetic five-year-old son, Caleb. We lived happily in Chicago, a normal American family.
Then, in a screech of tires and a thunderous crash, a low-slung, obscenely yellow Lamborghini, driven by rich kid Barney Hughes, stole them from me. One moment they were alive, the next, crumpled on the asphalt.
But the nightmare didn' t end there. Barney' s father, a powerful real estate magnate, bought off the police, made surveillance footage vanish, and had my family' s bodies illegally cremated.
Every lawyer I approached laughed me out of their office, warning of "professional suicide" against the Hughes empire.
I lost my job, and then Barney sued me for harassment. My world crumbled.
One night, Barney and his thugs broke into my home, beat me mercilessly, shattered every photo of my family, then committed the ultimate desecration: they opened the box of ashes, the stolen remains of my husband and son, and dumped them over my head. "Buy yourself a new kid or something. Get over it," he sneered, before urinating on the floor beside me.
How could this happen in America?
How could a family of heroes, dedicated to service, be murdered and then have their memory so brutally insulted by a corrupt system?
Lying broken on the floor, covered in dust and urine, I suddenly remembered two Medal of Honor recipients and an old promise: "The United States Army does not forget its own." I packed the medals and made a silent vow. My fight had just begun. The 99th Time We Fell Apart
Romance My first life ended alone in a hospital room, not with a bang, but with the quiet hum of an IV.
My husband, Ethan Lester, had spent months tearing me down, flaunting an affair, and relentlessly pursuing a divorce.
It was only after death, in an empty void, that the shattering truth unfolded: Ethan had pancreatic cancer, a secret burden he bore alone.
His cruelty was a desperate, twisted act of love, a brutal attempt to push me away so I wouldn't witness his agonizing decline.
He even took his own life after my funeral, convinced I'd find happiness with my ex.
Then I woke up, alive, the familiar scent of our apartment filling my lungs.
Across from me sat Ethan, divorce papers clutched in his hand, his eyes a mask of indifference.
"This is the 99th time, Jocelyn," he said, "Sign them. My girlfriend is pregnant."
In my past life, those words broke me.
But this time, seeing the subtle tremor in his hand, the deep circles under his eyes, I knew I was facing the same painful charade.
Why would he go to such lengths to push me away?
What kind of love forces such a cruel deception?
I picked up the papers, slowly, deliberately, and tore them in half.
I knew his secret.
And this time, I wouldn't let him die. Don't Mess With The MIT Heiress
Young Adult The car horn blared, a familiar sound mirroring a day that once ended my world. My eyes snapped open to the rain-streaked window – SATs morning, a date etched in my memory, not for the test, but for the beginning of my ruin.
Last time, it began with my 'friend' Jessica' s sweet smile, offering food after the exam. Then, the peanuts. My throat closed. My boyfriend, Liam, sided with her, dismissing it as 'an accident.'
That 'accident' spiraled. Online posts branded me a monster, my tech CEO mother' s reputation shredded, her company attacked by Jessica' s followers. The worst? Dying, isolated and vilified, knowing Jessica orchestrated it all for revenge-her father fired for embezzlement-and for social media clout.
The bitter betrayal still burned. How could I have been so easily destroyed by a calculated lie? I died a villain while she won. But this time, the script was about to flip. I wouldn't be a victim.
An MIT early admission letter, a full scholarship, sat on my desk, secured weeks ago. The SATs, once my undoing, now meant nothing to me. But they meant everything to them. The past was a horrifying ghost, but its lessons were concrete. I was ready to make them pay. My Hand, My Song, My Freedom
Modern The smell hit me first, thick, choking smoke, then Lila' s terrified scream ripped through the festival noise.
Jax, my fiancé, was a blur beside me, his face tight with a desperate need to save her.
He started towards The Swamp Shack, towards the hungry flames devouring the old wooden walls.
My body wanted to lunge, to grab his arm, to scream, "No, Jax, don't!"
But this time, I didn't.
Because I remembered.
I remembered the searing pain as burning wood crashed down, crushing my left hand, destroying my music, obliterating my future, in another life.
I remembered Jax' s face, twisted not with concern for me, but with fury, after Lila was dead and my hand a useless, mangled thing.
"It's your fault, Scarlett! You should have saved her, not me!" his words, a brand on my soul.
His family' s money, a weapon that bled me dry, blackballing me from every gig, every chance I had.
I remembered the suffocating silence of his plantation, the cold dismissal in his eyes every day of our sham marriage.
Oh God, and the smokehouse.
Locked in, the Louisiana summer sun beating down, the air so thick I couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, utterly alone.
I gasped, the memory so real I could taste the ash and the terror.
Now, in this life, Jax was yelling Lila' s name again, ready to play the hero, just like before.
But this time the script was mine.
This time, I stepped aside.
I just watched him charge into the inferno, pure indifference a cold comfort.
My hand, my precious hand, was safe.
My music was still mine. CEO's Absurd Love: Limitless Passion
Romance Claire, a pharmacy clerk, was framed for making a mistake, which brought her into Henry’s world. She even ended up having to marry him to compensate for his loss.
Regardless of how hard she tried to explain herself, he just took her words as more trickery, or a part of her evil plan to marry into a rich family.
However, before he knew it, he had already occupied her heart.
Finally, as the misunderstandings are cleared up, and all the hurt became sorrowful echoes of love, where should her love turn? You might like
Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles
Dorine Koestler I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved.
He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again.
"Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports.
For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian.
In return, he treated me like furniture.
He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste.
I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home.
So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco.
I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage.
But I underestimated Dante.
When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat.
He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away. The Unwanted Bride Becomes The City's Queen
Breeze I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella.
Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark.
But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved.
Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies.
When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel.
While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest.
The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella.
He ordered my father to punish me.
I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth.
That night, the love in my heart finally died.
On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape—the only proof that I was Seven.
Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney.
By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return. Marrying The Rival: My Ex-Husband's Despair
Fonz Nadherny I stood outside my husband's study, the perfect mafia wife, only to hear him mocking me as an "ice sculpture" while he entertained his mistress, Aria.
But the betrayal went deeper than infidelity.
A week later, my saddle snapped mid-jump, leaving me with a shattered leg. Lying in the hospital bed, I overheard the conversation that killed the last of my love.
My husband, Alessandro, knew Aria had sabotaged my gear. He knew she could have killed me.
Yet, he told his men to let it go. He called my near-death experience a "lesson" because I had bruised his mistress's ego.
He humiliated me publicly, freezing my accounts to buy family heirlooms for her. He stood by while she threatened to leak our private tapes to the press.
He destroyed my dignity to play the hero for a woman he thought was a helpless orphan.
He had no idea she was a fraud.
He didn't know I had installed micro-cameras throughout the estate while he was busy pampering her.
He didn't know I had hours of footage showing his "innocent" Aria sleeping with his guards, his rivals, and even his staff, laughing about how easy he was to manipulate.
At the annual charity gala, in front of the entire crime family, Alessandro demanded I apologize to her.
I didn't beg. I didn't cry.
I simply connected my drive to the main projector and pressed play. His Unwanted Wife: The Genius Artist Returns
Zaccaria Linn On our fifth anniversary, my husband slid a black velvet box across the table.
Inside wasn't a diamond ring, but a fountain pen.
"Sign the separation papers, Aurora," Ethan said. "Ilene is spiraling again. She needs to see we are over."
I was the wife of the Mafia Underboss, yet I was being discarded for the Family Ward.
Before I could answer, Ilene stormed into the restaurant.
She shrieked that I was still wearing his ring and threw a bowl of boiling lobster bisque directly at my chest.
As my skin blistered and peeled, Ethan didn't rush to me.
He hugged her.
"It's okay," he soothed the woman who had just assaulted me. "I've got you."
The betrayal didn't stop there.
When Ilene pushed me down the stairs days later, Ethan erased the security footage to protect her from the police.
When I was kidnapped by his enemies, I called his emergency line—the one meant for life-or-death situations.
He declined the call.
He was too busy holding Ilene's hand to save his wife.
That was the moment the chain broke.
As the kidnapper's van sped onto the highway, I didn't wait for a rescue that would never come.
I opened the door and jumped into the dark.
Everyone thought Aurora Bruce died on that pavement.
Two years later, Ethan stood outside a gallery in Paris, looking at the woman he had destroyed, finally realizing he had protected the wrong one. The Capo's Scarred Wife: A Vicious Comeback
Sofia Wade I was the Chicago Outfit's princess, and Luca and Matteo were my sworn protectors. We had mixed our blood at ten years old, promising that nothing would ever touch me.
But that oath turned to ash the night Sofia Ricci aimed a Roman candle at my chest.
The firework slammed into my shoulder, igniting my silk dress instantly. As I rolled on the concrete, screaming while the flames ate into my skin, I waited for my boys to save me.
They didn't.
Instead, I watched through the smoke as they rushed to Sofia. They wrapped their jackets—the ones meant to shield me—around the girl who had just set me on fire, comforting her because the "kickback" had scared her.
They let me burn to keep her warm.
When I woke up in the hospital with permanent scars, they brought me a letter of apology from her and defended her "accident." They even cut their palms to pay her debt, ignoring the fact that I was the one in bandages.
That was the moment Elena Vitiello died.
I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I simply packed my bags and defected to the one place they couldn't follow: the arms of Dante Moretti, the lethal Capo of New York.
By the time they realized their mistake and came crawling back to beg in the rain, I was already wearing another man's ring.
"You want forgiveness?" I asked, looking down at them.
"Burn for it." Runaway Nurse: The Mafia King's Remorse
Hu Minxue For seven years, I served as the eyes for Dante Vitiello, the blind Capo of New York.
I pulled him back from the edge of madness, tending to his wounds and warming his bed when everyone else had given up on him.
But the moment his vision returned, the years of devotion turned to ash.
In a single phone call, he decided to marry Sofia Moretti for territory, dismissing me as just "the maid's daughter" and a "comfort" he intended to keep as a mistress.
He forced me to watch him court her.
At a gala, when a chaotic accident caused a tower of champagne glasses to shatter, Dante threw his body over Sofia to protect her.
He left me standing there, bleeding from the glass shards, while he carried her away like she was porcelain.
He didn't even look back at the woman who had saved his life.
I realized then that I had worshipped a broken god.
I had given him my dignity, only for him to treat me like a disposable bandage now that he was whole.
He arrogantly believed I would stay in the penthouse, grateful for his scraps.
So, while he was out celebrating his engagement, I met with his mother.
I signed the severance agreement for fifty million dollars.
I packed my bags, wiped my phone, and boarded a one-way flight to Australia.
By the time Dante came home to an empty bed, realized his mistake, and began tearing the city apart to find me, I was already a ghost. Too Late: The Spare Daughter Escapes Him
SHANA GRAY I died on a Tuesday.
It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father.
I was twenty years old.
He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant.
He chose her. He always chose her.
And then, I woke up.
Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for.
This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice.
He didn't know he was talking to a ghost.
He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal.
He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder.
That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry.
She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts.
So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie.
I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane.
But I will not be a victim.
This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter.
This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain. Revenge Is Sweet: Marrying His Worst Enemy
CHRISTINE ROBINSON I was staring at the two pink lines on the plastic stick, trembling with the terrifying joy of carrying the heir to the New York underworld’s most ruthless faction.
Then the intercom buzzed, and a voice splintered my world.
"The little art student actually thinks I'm going to marry her? It was just a game to pass the time while you were in Europe, Estella."
I froze.
My boyfriend, Holden, was in the next room, laughing with the daughter of his rival.
He explained that I was just a "clean civilian image" he needed to secure a business deal. Now that the deal was signed, he was dumping the "stray" to marry the "Queen."
I tried to run, but freedom only lasted forty-eight hours.
Holden didn't just break my heart; he turned my terror into content.
He kidnapped me, tied me to a chair at the edge of a cliff, and forced me to choose between my life and his new fiancée's.
Then, he pushed me off the edge.
As gravity snatched me, I heard him laughing.
I landed on a stunt airbag. It was just a "social experiment." A sick prank for his amusement.
"Don't be so dramatic, Kenia," he called down. "It's just a game."
He thought I was broken. He thought I was just a prop in his life.
But he forgot that I knew his secrets.
I dragged my injured body to a payphone and dialed the one number Holden told me to fear—the rival Don, Gael Simpson.
"It's Kenia," I whispered, clutching the receiver like a lifeline. "I'm calling in the debt." Marrying His Rival: The Ex-Fiancé's Nightmare
Moria Anninger I was the "Caged Canary" of the underworld, a biological asset designed to merge two crime families. My fiancé, Bryant Barnes, didn't love me. He loved the power I brought, and he loved his mistress, Kalia.
The night Kalia broke into my penthouse and stomped on my hand, crushing the bones and my fashion career, Bryant didn't help me. He told the police she was my guest and warned me not to embarrass him with a cast.
That was just the beginning. When Kalia lied about feeling unsafe, Bryant dangled me off a balcony. When she faked a kidnapping, he locked me in an industrial freezer for six hours until I turned blue. And when I fell into the marina, he swam right past me to save her, leaving me to drown in the freezing water.
He destroyed my body and my dignity for a woman who was stealing my designs and faking a pregnancy. He thought I was just a broken obligation he could discard.
But he made a fatal mistake. He didn't make sure I was dead.
I dragged myself out of the water and made a call to his greatest rival.
On the night of our grand merger, I walked onto the stage wearing royal blue instead of white. I rolled up my sleeve to reveal the scars he gave me, looked him dead in the eye, and grabbed the microphone.
"I hereby terminate my engagement to Bryant Barnes. And I am proud to announce my betrothal to the true King of this city." 
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