I Chose His Rival Blind

On my twenty-first birthday, my parents laid a dozen glossy photographs of Americas most eligible heirs across the mahogany dining table, gently nudging me to choose a fianc.

I looked at my father and told him to just shuffle them face down and let me pick blind.

Because in my last life, I hadn't hesitated. I had reached straight for Preston Sinclair, the golden boy of Manhattans Upper East Side elite. The man I had loved since childhood.

It wasn't until after the wedding that I learned the truth: his untouchable first love, the fragile girl he had been forced to leave behind, had been so heartbroken by our marriage that she got blackout drunk at a dive bar and was assaulted. She attempted suicide three times. And Preston? Preston decided I was the architect of all her suffering.

To avenge her, he systematically dismantled my family. He funneled the entirety of the Kensington fortune into her hands, hollowing out my legacy until there was nothing left. And in the end, when she finally crept into our garage and severed the brake lines of our car, he looked the other way.

The three of usmy mother, my father, and Idied crushed in a mangled fortress of steel and shattered glass.

Given a second chance at life, I reached blindly into the pile and drew Miles Davenport. The elusive, fiercely private heir to a New England shipping empirea man who spent more time in silent retreats and studying philosophy than in boardrooms.

But when I walked into my engagement party, my arm looped gracefully through Miless, Preston Sinclair completely lost his mind.

I slid Miles Davenports photograph across the table toward my parents.

They exchanged a loaded, uncertain glance.

"Stella," my father said softly. "Your mother and I know youve been infatuated with Preston since you were kids. If you want us to reconsider"

I shook my head, my voice eerily calm. "If this is what fate handed me, I think Id like to see where it leads."

Especially since I already know the bloody, gasoline-soaked ending of forcing Preston to marry me.

Seeing the quiet resolve in my eyes, my parents finally nodded.

"Alright. Well reach out to the Davenports to discuss the arrangement," my mother said, smoothing her skirt. "But the Kensingtons and the Davenports are both legacy families. The market will react. To avoid unnecessary media circus, we keep this strictly confidential until the engagement gala."

I agreed. But secrets bleed quickly in our world. That evening, as I stepped out of my town car to attend a charity gala at the Plaza, the paparazzi swarmed me like vultures who had caught a scent.

"Miss Kensington! Is it true youre finally settling on a marriage alliance?"

Before I could even blink against the strobe of camera flashes, another reporter shoved a microphone forward. "Everyone knows youve been devoted to the Sinclair heir for years. Can we assume Preston is the lucky man?"

I lifted my gaze. Right on cue, Preston Sinclair was walking up the red carpet. Our eyes locked.

Even through the sea of flashing cameras, his expression was unmistakable: a familiar, chilling cocktail of profound boredom and absolute disgust.

"Excuse me. Please step aside," he commanded.

His security detail aggressively parted the sea of reporters. Without missing a beat, Preston reached out and pulled Harper Quinn into his chest. She looked up at him, her pale, heart-shaped face the very picture of delicate vulnerability.

"The only woman I have ever loved, and will ever love, is Harper," Preston declared, his voice echoing over the manic clicking of cameras. "Even if I were forced by family obligations to marry someone else, I would not give a single fraction of my heart to another woman."

Harpers cheeks flushed a becoming shade of rose. She buried her face in his cashmere lapel, her arms tightening around his waist.

A few feet away, a cluster of socialites who had always resented my familys standing began to loudly whisper.

"So what if she's the sole heir to the Kensington empire? Preston doesn't even want to look at her. Hed rather have the daughter of a lottery-winning nobody."

"God, shes an embarrassment to her family name. Throwing herself at him just to play second fiddle to Harper Quinn."

The mockery grew louder. Harper tilted her head back from Prestons embrace, finding my eyes through the crowd. A fleeting, razor-sharp smirk touched her lips before she hid it away.

I didn't react. I simply turned my head, fixing my posture, and walked into the ballroom.

Of course, the universe has a sick sense of humor. The organizers seated Preston directly to my right.

He dropped into his chair, radiating hostility.

"Stella, I have told you a thousand times I don't want to marry you. Why do you insist on suffocating me?"

I had heard those exact words in my past life. Back then, they had shattered me. Today, they just felt exhausting.

"I am not suffocating you, Preston."

He slammed his fist against the linen tablecloth. The crystal wine glasses shuddered. His face twisted with revulsion.

"Then why the hell are you forcing this? You think just because the Kensingtons have more capital and social leverage, you can dictate the rest of my life?" he hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You are trampling on my dignity. Let me make this clear: even if they drag me to the altar, I will never look at you. Not once."

Oh, I know, I thought. You kept that promise perfectly last time.

Just then, the fragile, adored center of his universe approached our table. Tears brimmed in Harpers wide eyes. Without a word of warning, she collapsed to her knees right beside my chair.

"Miss Kensington, I know you despise me," she sobbed, her voice carrying just enough to turn heads at the neighboring tables. "But my parents are innocent. When you had your security throw them out of the country club yesterday, my father nearly had a heart attack!"

She gasped for air, clutching at the hem of my gown. "Please, Im begging you, let them be. If you want... if you need me to leave Preston so you can have him, I'll do it. Just please..."

Her voice cracked perfectly on the final syllable. Before I could even process the absolute fabrication of her story, Preston was out of his chair. He hauled her gently to her feet, pulling her behind him as he glared down at me with pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Whatever is between us has nothing to do with Harper! Why would you target her family?"

His self-righteous anger felt utterly bizarre.

"I didn't do anything to"

"You are exactly what they say you are," Preston interrupted, his voice laced with venom. "Spoiled rotten since birth. You think the world is your plaything."

As the words left his mouth, a sycophantic junior executive scurried over, holding an exquisitely wrapped velvet box.

"Mr. Sinclair, congratulations. A small token for your and Miss Kensington's upcoming engagement"

Before the man could finish, Preston snatched the heavy box and, in front of half the ballroom, hurled it directly at me.

"Apologize to Harper, Stella." His chest heaved. "Or so help me God, even if my family goes bankrupt trying to keep up with yours, I will nuke this arrangement. I will never marry a woman as vicious as you!"

The box was wrapped in heavy, metallic foil. The sharp corner caught my jawline before clattering to the floor.

A collective gasp rippled through the surrounding tables, but not a single person dared to intervene.

I raised a hand to my chin. When I pulled my fingers back, my skin was smeared with bright, warm red.

Looking at Preston Sinclair now, he felt like a stranger. Or rather, he felt exactly like the monster from my past life, the man who had publicly degraded me to elevate Harper time and time again.

The last remaining embers of my childhood affection for him turned to ash.

"I will not apologize for something I didn't do," I said, my voice eerily quiet, steady as a flatline.

"Fine. Don't come crying to me when you regret this!"

Preston wrapped his arm protectively around Harper and stormed out of the ballroom.

When my parents saw the cut on my face, they were frantic. We left immediately, and my mother had our private physician meet us at the penthouse to treat it.

Sitting in my dressing room, watching my parents hover anxiously over me, a profound sense of gratitude washed over me.

Thank God. The universe had given me a reset button. My parents were alive. The Kensington legacy was intact. All I had to do was stay as far away from Preston Sinclair and Harper Quinn as humanly possible.

A few days later, the Davenport family's engagement gifts arrived. The sprawling foyer of our estate was quickly buried in impeccably sourced treasuresrare art, deeds to properties, and at the center of it all, a velvet case containing a breathtaking diamond and emerald bracelet that had belonged to Miless great-grandmother. The sheer weight of the gifts was a declaration of absolute respect.

Looking at the boxes, a painful lump formed in my throat.

In my past life, the Sinclair family knew how desperately I loved Preston. They weaponized it. They told the press that they found me overbearing, that I was practically forcing their son to the altar. There was no engagement party. There was no dowry. The wedding was a sterile, rushed dinner between the two families.

I remembered Prestons parents mocking me thinly over the soup course. I remembered Prestons icy silence. Seeing the Davenports' overwhelming respect now only cemented my relief.

To show my own respect, I decided to personally arrange Miless engagement attire.

I was in a private, century-old bespoke tailoring house on Fifth Avenue, leaning over a heavy oak table with the master tailor to finalize the embroidery on the French cuffs.

The bell chimed. Preston walked in, his fingers intertwined with Harpers.

The moment he saw me, his features hardened into a sneer. "What are you doing here?"

The elderly tailor offered a polite smile. "Miss Kensington is being incredibly thoughtful. Shes personally designing the grooms suit for the engagement."

Preston didn't even look at the sketches. He tilted his chin up, exhaling a haughty breath.

"I told you I have no intention of marrying you. I don't care how many hoops you jump through, my mind won't change." He glanced dismissively at the table. "And for the record, I despise monogrammed cufflinks. Its tacky."

I looked down at the sketch. The silver cufflink bore a sharp, elegant 'M'. He obviously hadn't looked closely enough.

"Actually, these are for"

"Oh, Preston, look at this gown! Its breathtaking."

Harpers eyes were wide. She brushed past me, her fingers tracing the delicate, beaded bodice of a vintage, archive-scarlet silk gown hanging on the display form.

Prestons face instantly softened. "If you like it, well have the tailor make one exactly like it for you."

"But I want to wear it tonight," she pouted slightly, her voice dipping into a honeyed whine. "To the symphony."

Preston smiled indulgently at her, then turned to the master tailor with an entitled snap of his fingers.

"Take her measurements and alter it immediately. We have a show to catch."

I frowned, stepping forward. "Preston, that is my engagement gown."

He waved me off like a nuisance. "Im a busy man, Stella. I don't have time to play dress-up for whatever pathetic gala your family is throwing to force my hand." His eyes dragged up and down my frame. "Besides, Harper has the figure for a dress like that. You don't."

Harper kept her back to me, staring at herself in the mirror. The triumphant gleam in her reflection was unmistakable.

Yet, her voice dripped with fake guilt. "Oh, if Miss Kensington doesn't want to part with it, its fine, Preston. A dress this luxurious... it really isn't meant for a nobody like me."

"Don't talk about yourself like that. The woman I love is no nobody," Preston snapped, shooting me a venomous look. "Stella is nothing without her parents' money anyway. Without her trust fund, shes as common as they come."

Without asking, he pulled the heavy silk gown off the mannequin and shoved it into the tailors arms.

The master tailor didn't move. He simply looked at me, waiting for my instruction. His family had been dressing the Kensington men and women for five generations; we practically kept the shop in business.

Seeing the tailor ignore him made Prestons face flush with sudden, defensive rage. "Listen to me, you"

"If Miss Quinn likes it so much, let her have it."

I cut him off, my voice entirely flat.

Preston exhaled, his posture relaxing slightly into a smug stance.

"Since youre finally learning how to behave," he said, adjusting his watch, "I suppose I can tolerate having dinner with you once a month after the wedding."

He said it like he was tossing a scrap of meat to a starving dog.

And in that precise moment, standing in the quiet tailoring shop, the puzzle pieces finally clicked together.

I finally understood why, years ago, his attitude toward me had shifted so drastically. It happened the summer he realized the Kensington family sat at the absolute pinnacle of high society, while the Sinclairs were barely clinging to the bottom of the top twenty.

When I was young and foolishly in love, I didn't care about social rankings. I didn't measure human worth in stock portfolios.

But he did. From that summer on, he constantly brought up "my family's money." He relentlessly reminded me that I relied on my parents. He belittled me, mocked me, and weaponized my love for him just to tear me down.

It wasn't that he was too good for me.

It was that he felt hopelessly, suffocatingly inferior.

A quiet, genuine laugh slipped from my lips.

"Preston," I said, tilting my head. "What on earth makes you so incredibly certain that you are the man Im marrying?"

Prestons mouth curled into a mocking, asymmetrical smile.

He looked at me like I had just told the funniest joke in Manhattan.

"Youve been trailing after me like a lost puppy since we were ten. Every time you blew out your birthday candles, you wished youd marry me by twenty-one." He crossed his arms. "And now that the time has come, you expect me to believe you'd look at anyone else?"

Harper leaned into his side, her voice laced with poison masked as playful teasing.

"Well, you never know, Pres. With the Kensington money, Im sure every trust-fund baby in the country is lining up to marry her."

"Let them line up," Preston sneered. "Shed still only beg to be my wife."

They turned and walked toward the fitting rooms.

Before stepping behind the velvet curtain, Preston called out to the tailor. "Have the dress delivered to my penthouse when youre done. And change those tacky cufflinks. Make them square. No initials."

The master tailor watched them go, then let out a heavy sigh. He turned to me, looking pained. "Miss Kensington... how would you like me to handle this?"

"I meant what I said. Let her have it. It gives me an excuse to design something entirely new anyway," I said, calmly pulling my stool back up to the drafting table. "And completely ignore him regarding the cufflinks. He isn't the groom, so he doesn't get a vote."

That evening, I attended a friends birthday party at a private club downtown.

Halfway through the night, Harper arrived fashionably late. One of Prestons massive private security guards trailed behind her.

The guard walked right up to my booth, holding a cheap, red plastic bodega bag. He dropped it onto the floor by my heels.

"Hope you weren't waiting too long, Miss Kensington," Harper said, her eyes gleaming with malice under the neon lights. "I was going to return the dress right after the symphony, but Preston just insisted we take a detour in the back of his Maybach..."

She giggled, twirling a strand of hair. "But youre famous for being so forgiving. Im sure you don't mind."

I looked down. Inside the plastic bag, the three-million-dollar vintage archive gown was violently crumpled, treated like a dirty dishcloth.

Stark against the dark red silk were glaring, dried patches of white, viscous fluid.

Around us, the music seemed to drop away. Some people looked on in absolute outrage on my behalf; others whispered behind their drinks, thrilled by the drama.

"She brought it right to her face. If Stella doesn't snap now, she really is pathetic for him."

"What can she do? Preston only has eyes for the influencer."

"Honestly, its embarrassing. The Kensington empire is going to end up in Preston Sinclair's pocket at this rate."

I didn't even flinch. I just flagged down a busboy.

"Please take this to the dumpster," I said smoothly, not breaking eye contact with Harper. "Im so glad you enjoyed it, Miss Quinn."

The utter indifference in my voice was a wall her petty cruelty couldn't penetrate. Her smug smile faltered. Robbed of her explosive reaction, she gritted her teeth, her hands balling into fists as she stormed off to the least desirable table in the back.

But Harper couldn't let it go. Less than an hour later, her Instagram accountboasting a few million followerswas trending.

The perfect night. Wearing a dress that fits perfectly, holding the hand of the man I love, listening to our favorite symphony.

The photo was a close-up of her and Preston aggressively kissing in the back of the car, his hand tangled in the red silk of the gown.

The internet is ruthless. Within minutes, gossip accounts dug up my old, teenage posts where I had publicly gushed about Preston. They stitched them together into side-by-side comparison TikToks. It was a digital public execution.

And on the most viral video of them all, Preston Sinclair had publicly 'liked' it from his official account.

Memes of "Pathetic Stella" began flooding Twitter.

My expression finally darkened. I opened my phone, permanently deactivated my personal accounts, and sent a single, three-word text to the Kensington PR crisis team: Burn it down.

In less than ten minutes, every hashtag, every video, every mention of the situation vanished from the internet. Wiped clean, as if they had never existed.

The day before my engagement party.

I was walking out of the Kensington corporate headquarters when two massive men in dark suits blocked my path. Before I could call for my driver, they forced me into the back of an SUV and drove straight to the Sinclair estate.

The moment I was pushed through the double doors, I saw Harper sitting on the plush living room sofa, crying hysterically.

Preston was hovering over her, speaking in soft, cooing tones. But the second he saw me, his face turned thunderous.

"You have gone way too far this time, Stella!" he roared. "Harper makes a harmless post, and you use your familys muscle to have all her social media accounts permanently banned? You know her platform is her livelihood! You are trying to destroy her!"

I stared at him, genuinely confused. "I told my team to scrub my name from the trends. I didn't touch her accounts."

"Don't lie to me! Who else besides the great Stella Kensington has that kind of power? Youre just insanely jealous of her!"

"I am telling you, I didn't"

"Are we really allowing a girl who isn't even married yet to talk back to her husband in my house?"

A sharp, haughty voice drifted down the grand staircase.

Prestons mother descended, looking at me down the bridge of her nose. She took a seat on the accent chair opposite me. Next to her, Prestons fathera man who usually bent over backward to kiss my fathers ass at board meetingswas leaning back, legs crossed arrogantly.

"Stella," his father began, swirling a glass of scotch. "We don't entirely approve of your spoiled, dramatic antics. But since youre threatening suicide if our son won't marry you, we are willing to graciously accommodate you."

He took a sip. "However, there are conditions. Your dowrythe assets transferred to the Sinclair estate upon marriagemust equal exactly fifty percent of the Kensington familys total net worth. We have the prenup right here."

A cold, bitter laugh clawed its way up my throat. I shook my head, stepping backward to leave.

Suddenly, something slammed hard into the back of my knees. I gasped in pain, my legs giving out, and crashed to the hardwood floor.

Prestons mother snapped her fingers. A maid rushed forward, carrying a silver tray with a steaming porcelain teacup.

"Youll be a Sinclair soon enough," his mother said, her eyes flashing with cruel authority. "I think its time you kneel and serve your new mother-in-law a cup of tea to learn your place. Thats not asking too much, is it?"

"Miss Kensington. You must crawl forward on your knees to serve Mrs. Sinclair."

The maid forcefully pressed the scalding teacup into my hands.

The porcelain was straight out of the kettle. The moment the blistering heat bit into my skin, I flinched, dropping the cup. It shattered into a dozen jagged pieces across the floor, splashing boiling water over my knees.

"Stella! Have you zero respect for your elders?!" Preston barked from across the room.

I looked down at my throbbing, blistered fingertips. Slowly, I shook my head.

"I only show respect to my actual in-laws. You said you didn't want to marry me, Preston. Which works perfectly, because I am not marrying you."

I placed my palms flat on the floor, ignoring the shards of porcelain, and tried to stand. Instantly, the two security guards grabbed my shoulders, forcing me back down.

"Let go of me!" I yelled, struggling violently against their grip. "I am the heir to the Kensington family! You think you can touch me?"

Mrs. Sinclairs face contorted with rage. She stood up, marched over, and delivered a blinding slap across my cheek.

The sharp sting exploded against my skin. The echo of the slap blurred perfectly with the memories of my past lifethe countless times she had struck me when I was trapped in this very house. My breath hitched. I froze, paralyzed by a ghost of trauma.

"Your engagement is tomorrow and you dare to speak to me like this?!" Mrs. Sinclair shrieked. "Preston, look at this animal youre bringing into our home! Defiant, feral, completely lacking class!"

Preston didn't even look at me. He was busy stroking Harpers hair.

"Shes the one who practically begged on her hands and knees for this," he muttered coldly. "If it were up to me, Harper would be the one walking down the aisle."

Right on cue, Harpers tears started flowing again. "Oh, Pres. I dream of being your wife every single night. But my family is so small... we could never survive making an enemy of the Kensingtons."

Her manufactured despair sent Preston into a protective frenzy. He abandoned her side and stalked over to where I was pinned on the floor, looming over me like a judge delivering a sentence.

"You wanted this marriage so badly you were willing to play dirty, Stella?" he sneered. "Fine. You want to be my wife? You will sign an agreement stating you have zero say in my personal life. You will never return to the Kensington estate. You will live here, you will serve my parents, and you will ensure Harper and I are comfortable."

A lawyer stepped forward, dropping a thick legal document onto the floor next to the broken glass. The bold header read: Asset Transfer Agreement: 50% Kensington Holdings.

I curled my burned fingers into tight fists, refusing to touch the pen. When I looked up at him, my eyes were burning, bloodshot with fury.

"Preston Sinclair! I am not marrying you!"

Seeing my defiance, his mother saw her opening. She raised her hand and brought it down hard across my face again.

"Is this the 'elite breeding' of the Kensington name? Raising a daughter who screams at her own husband?" she spat. "I am going to beat the manners into you today so you don't embarrass us tomorrow!"

I lost count of the times her hand struck my face. I lost track of how many times they forced my thumb onto an inkpad, trying to press it against the contract.

All I knew was that when they finally grew tired and dragged me to the door, Mrs. Sinclair sneered one last command:

"You are to wear black tomorrow. Harper will be wearing the white gown."

I looked back at them, my cheek bruised, my dress torn, and felt nothing but an overwhelming, hysterical urge to laugh.

The next day at the engagement gala, I did not wear black. I wore the brand-new, breathtaking scarlet gown I had designed myself.

My parents were mingling inside the grand hall with the Davenport family. I stood near the velvet ropes at the entrance, greeting the elite of New York society.

It wasn't until nearly noon that the Sinclair family finally arrived, walking with an entourage that demanded attention.

They were dressed to the nines. Harper had her arm looped tightly through Prestons. She was in a pure white gown, and he was in a sharp black tuxedo. They looked exactly like a bride and groom.

Usually, at events like this, Prestons father would be sweating through his suit, shaking hands and bowing to men far more powerful than him.

Today, he walked with his chest puffed out, looking down his nose at billionaires, acting as if he owned the entire building.

When Mrs. Sinclair spotted me in my scarlet silk, her face instantly soured.

"Where are your parents?" she demanded loudly. "I need to have a very serious conversation with them about how horribly they've raised you!"

There were senators and tech moguls walking past us. I had no desire to create a scene at my own engagement.

"My parents are inside. You can go in and"

Before I could finish, Mrs. Sinclair aggressively jabbed her manicured finger into my shoulder. "You go fetch them and bring them to me!"

I frowned, swatting her hand away. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Preston strolling over, his expression utterly bored.

He stood next to me, turning to face the arriving guests as if assuming his role as the host.

"Well, Stella, you got exactly what you wanted. I hope youre thrilled," he muttered under his breath, not looking at me. "But don't let it go to your head. You managed to buy my physical presence today, but you will never, ever have my heart."

His voice was dripping with venom. He truly believed I had ruined his life just by loving him.

"Preston, I think you are severely confused. Today is"

"Are you ignoring me?!" Mrs. Sinclair screeched, cutting me off. "Did you forget how you looked sobbing on your knees in my living room yesterday?!"

She yanked her phone out of her clutch, tapping the screen aggressively. Suddenly, the video of mebruised, forced onto my knees among shattered glassstarted playing at top volume. She shoved the screen toward the incoming guests.

The socialites paused, staring in absolute shock. A few immediately pulled out their own phones to record her screen.

The paparazzi, previously contained behind barricades, smelled blood. They broke the line, rushing up the steps with microphones thrust forward.

"Miss Kensington! Is this your future mother-in-law hazing you?"

"Does your submission on tape signify that the Kensington empire is officially bowing to the Sinclair family?"

I sucked in a sharp breath. I signaled for my own security while violently grabbing Prestons arm.

"Tell your mother to turn that off right now!"

He calmly peeled my fingers off his sleeve and casually adjusted his bowtie.

"If public humiliation is what it takes for you to learn how to respect my mother, then its a necessary lesson."

"Preston, your entire family is psychotic!"

"You literally begged on your hands and knees to marry me," he shot back, his eyes flashing with disgust. "You have zero right to insult my family."

I had reached my absolute limit. I grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the reception table, fully intending to smash it against the marble floor.

But suddenly, a large, warm hand wrapped gently around my wrist.

I turned.

Miles Davenport stood there in a flawlessly tailored ivory suit. His eyes were perfectly calm, but the depth of the gaze he leveled at the Sinclairs was terrifyingly cold.

"Mr. Sinclair," Miless voice was smooth, quiet, and lethal. "Just how many lives does your mother think she has, to demand my fiance kneel for her?"