Love almost Betrayal

For five years, I was Broadway's golden girl, and my powerful CEO boyfriend, Brennan, was my anchor. Our love felt invincible, a modern fairytale written across city marquees.

Then he met Aimee, a struggling musician he claimed saved his life in a car crash.

He gave her the vintage guitar he'd promised me. He stole my private journal so she could turn my pain into a hit song, making me a national laughingstock. He even used my dying mother's medical bills to keep me trapped.

But the night my mother was dying, the night she needed an emergency helicopter, he diverted it. He sent her only hope to Aimee, who was having a "panic attack."

My mother died alone.

At her funeral, a reporter asked about his engagement to Aimee. He thought he had broken me, but he had just started a war. He didn't know the separation papers he'd already signed weren't for a payout-they were for a divorce, and I was about to disappear.

Chapter 1

My name is Garnet Bauer. For years, that name shone brightest on Broadway marquees, a symbol of glittering success and a life seemingly stolen from a fairytale. I was the critically acclaimed star, the darling of New York theater, living a dream I' d built with my own hands.

People saw the flawless smiles, the standing ovations, the endless bouquets of roses. They saw the woman who had it all.

They saw Brennan Monroe by my side, too. He was the formidable CEO of a New York private equity firm, a man whose name commanded respect and fear in equal measure. For five years, he was my partner, my anchor, the one who navigated the stormy seas of my public life with quiet strength.

He was the man who, four years ago, had surprised me backstage after my big break on Broadway. I'd just finished my debut as Elphaba, my face still green, my heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and triumph. He knelt on one knee amidst the chaos of costumes and props.

He wasn't proposing marriage, not yet. He held out a small, velvet box. Inside, nestled on white silk, was a vintage diamond pendant, a family heirloom. "For your first star," he'd whispered, his eyes dark and full of pride.

He always knew how to make me feel seen, cherished, and utterly adored. He' d sit in the front row for every opening night, his presence a silent promise of unwavering support. He' d send flowers every week, not just to my dressing room, but to our penthouse apartment, filling every vase with lilies, my favorite.

When I landed the lead in "The Phantom of the Opera," a role I'd dreamed of since childhood, it was his belief that propelled me forward. "You were born for this, Garnet," he' d said, holding my hand backstage, his thumb tracing worried circles on my skin. "Don't ever doubt that."

His love, his devotion, felt like an impenetrable fortress around us. I believed in the permanence of us, in the kind of love that defied the spotlight and the relentless demands of our careers. We were destined, a modern-day power couple whose bond was forged in unyielding trust and mutual admiration.

I was so profoundly, irrevocably in love. I believed we were invincible, that nothing could ever break what we had. Oh, how wrong I was.

The fracturing began subtly, like a hairline crack in a masterpiece, almost imperceptible at first. Her name was Aimee Wells, a struggling indie musician. She arrived in our lives like a whisper, then grew into a scream. Brennan believed she had saved his life in a car crash.

He' d been driving home late one night, distracted by a call from work. A truck swerved into his lane, and he' d lost control. Aimee, a stranger, pulled him from the wreckage just moments before his car burst into flames. Or so he said.

He felt a primal debt, an obligation that twisted into something ugly and consuming. He started calling her his "guardian angel," his "savior." Her presence in his life wasn't just a ripple; it was a tidal wave.

The first betrayal hit me like a physical blow. It was our fifth anniversary. I' d booked our favorite rooftop restaurant, a place with a view of the city skyline that always made us feel like we were on top of the world. I' d picked out a new dress, a deep emerald green that I knew he loved.

He canceled an hour before our reservation. "Aimee has a small gig downtown, Garnet," he said, his voice flat, devoid of the usual warmth he saved for our special occasions. "She's nervous. I need to be there for her."

My heart sank, a cold, heavy stone in my chest. I tried to swallow the disappointment, the humiliation, but it tasted like ash. I stood in our living room, the city glittering outside, feeling utterly alone.

Then came the vintage guitar. It was a 1959 Gibson Les Paul, a rare and exquisite instrument I' d been coveting for years. Brennan had promised it to me for my next big role, a secret gift he' d hinted at with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

One afternoon, I walked into our study and saw it. Not in its case, waiting to be presented to me, but propped carelessly against Aimee' s cheap amplifier. She was strumming it, her fingers clumsy on the polished wood.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Aimee cooed, looking up with wide, innocent eyes. "Brennan said it was a gift. He said he wanted to help me kickstart my career."

My breath hitched. The words, "meant for Garnet," choked in my throat. I couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. It was a punch to the gut, a theft not just of an object, but of a promise, a moment, a piece of my future.

I tried to tell myself it was a misunderstanding, a lapse in judgment. But the cracks were widening, turning into gaping chasms.

One evening, Aimee, in her usual clumsy way, knocked over a priceless Ming vase in our entryway. The shards scattered across the marble floor like shattered dreams. My grandmother had left it to me.

I gasped, my heart leaping into my throat. Brennan, who usually had a temper when it came to damage, rushed past me. He didn't check on the vase. He didn't even look at me.

He went straight to Aimee, his hands cupping her face. "Are you hurt, baby?" he asked, his voice laced with concern, his eyes scanning her for any sign of injury. She looked fragile, her lower lip trembling.

My anger, a slow burn for weeks, ignited. "Brennan, that was my grandmother's vase!" I yelled, my voice cracking.

He barely glanced at me. "It's just a vase, Garnet," he said, dismissive, as if I was being childish. "Aimee could have been seriously hurt."