The Framed Fiancé
The realization settled in my gut, cold and sharp. Isabelle was cheating on me.
I didn’t play games. I told her the engagement was off.
She wept, swearing she would cut all ties with Vincent, that she would only ever love me. And for the sake of our families’ long-standing alliance, I gave her one last chance.
Three days later, at the annual Thanksgiving Gala, Isabelle walked in, pushing Vincent in a wheelchair.
When I confronted her, her voice was a raw, desperate shriek.
"Toby, you can buy my obedience, you can force my hand, but you will never have my heart!"
"Vincent loves me! Even if you break his other leg, even if you kill him, he will never leave my side!"
"We have no regrets! This is for true love!"
A shocked silence fell over the grand ballroom, followed by a wave of scandalized whispers. In the blink of an eye, I was no longer the wronged fiancé. I was the villain—the ruthless monster who had stolen another man’s love and crippled him for it.
Faced with a hundred pairs of accusing eyes, I smiled.
Fine. If they wanted a monster, I would give them one.
1
After Isabelle’s heart-wrenching accusation, a strange hush fell over the ballroom. The initial confusion in the guests’ eyes had curdled into pure contempt.
"I can't believe the Crane heir is like that…"
"Forcing her to marry him? And he broke the other guy's leg? That's monstrous."
"You never really know someone, do you? The Crane Corporation is a dynasty, but the man set to inherit it is a tyrant."
"No wonder Miss Slate was so distraught. The poor woman is living a nightmare…"
The whispers washed over me like a tide of filth. I stood my ground, my expression unreadable, my gaze fixed on Isabelle and the man in the wheelchair before her, Vincent Shaw.
Emboldened by her own "courage" and the room's reaction, Isabelle clutched the handles of Vincent’s wheelchair, tears streaming down her face. She looked like a martyr, ready to die for her cause.
On cue, Vincent lifted his head. His face was pale, his eyes a carefully crafted mix of agony and noble restraint. He spoke, his voice trembling as if fighting back immense fear. "Mr. Crane… it’s all my fault. I couldn't help falling in love with Isabelle. She has nothing to do with this…"
"Please," he begged, "I'm on my knees. Spare the Slate family. Spare Isabelle…"
He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for the inevitable. He straightened his back. "If you still need your pound of flesh, take it from me. I'm the one you want."
"Beat me. Kill me. I, Vincent Shaw, will not utter a single word of complaint. Just… please… don't hurt her."
This declaration of selfless love immediately won him a fresh wave of sympathy. Murmurs of admiration for Vincent's bravery rippled through the crowd, punctuated by sighs of pity for Isabelle's tragic fate. Every arrow of blame was now pointed directly at me: Toby Crane, the powerful, ruthless heir who crushed true love under the heel of his boot.
Isabelle let out a sob and threw her arms around Vincent. "Vincent, don't say another word! I won't let you sacrifice yourself for me! If we die, we die together!"
What a performance. A heart-wrenching melodrama. If I weren't the fiancé they’d betrayed, I might have even applauded their "epic, earth-shattering" love.
I laughed.
The sound, sharp and devoid of humor, cut through the tense atmosphere. The whispers died. All eyes were on me.
"Take it from you?" I repeated his words, my voice quiet but laced with a chilling frost. "Vincent, what exactly do you think you are? Do you honestly believe you're worthy of my dedicated attention?"
I took two steps forward, my gaze sweeping past him to land squarely on Isabelle. "Isabelle, three days ago, you cried these same tears when you swore to me you would never see this man again, begging for my forgiveness."
"Tell me, are these tears any more genuine? Or do they just shine brighter with an audience?"
2
Isabelle’s face went white, her eyes darting nervously. But she quickly tightened her embrace on Vincent and screeched, "That's enough, Toby!"
"I was terrified! You forced me to say that because I was afraid of what you would do to him!"
"But I see now that hiding won't solve anything! You were never going to let him go!"
"You just want to strangle our love in its cradle!"
"True love?" I arched an eyebrow. "So your version of 'true love' involves wheeling your lover into a public gala to be pitied by strangers? This is how you protect what you have?" I let out a soft, contemptuous chuckle. "Your love seems rather cheap."
"You—!" Isabelle choked on her rage.
Vincent quickly grabbed her hand, patting it soothingly before turning his pained gaze back to me. "Mr. Crane, I know you hate me. I ruined your future with Isabelle, and for that, I am truly sorry. I accept any revenge you have planned."
"Humiliate me, hurt me, do whatever you want. But please, don't tarnish the memory of the love she once had for you."
My brow twitched. "You both keep calling me ruthless, a monster who forced you into this marriage…" I paused, my eyes turning to ice. "Since I’m already wearing the label, wouldn't I be disappointing everyone—including you two—if I didn't live up to it?"
I stepped closer, looming over the "star-crossed lovers." Vincent instinctively tried to wheel himself back, but he was trapped. Isabelle threw herself in front of him, her voice a mixture of fear and bravado. "What… what do you think you're doing? You wouldn't dare hurt him in front of all these people!"
"Relax," I said, my tone deceptively light. "I won't lay a finger on him. Not right now, anyway." My eyes drifted down to the plaster cast on Vincent's leg. "A broken leg needs time to heal," I said, my words dripping with insinuation. "After all, you might have a long road ahead of you."
"Or perhaps… you're headed somewhere you won't be needing your legs at all."
Without another word, I turned my back on their shocked faces and the sea of judgmental eyes. I walked straight out of the ballroom.
The moment I got in my car, Isabelle's father called.
"Toby, my boy… about Isabelle… her mother and I spoiled her rotten. She can be so impulsive." His voice was slick with false apology. "You were wronged tonight. On her behalf, I am deeply sorry."
He paused, clearly expecting me to offer a polite platitude. I remained silent.
He cleared his throat and continued, his tone shifting to one of helpless inquiry. "But Toby, no matter how angry you were… you shouldn't have… you really shouldn't have sent men to break Vincent's leg."
"That was… a bit extreme, don't you think? It's not good for the Crane family's reputation."
I cut through his carefully constructed act with a cold laugh. "Mr. Slate, which one of your eyes saw me send anyone to break his leg?"
There was a beat of silence on the other end, then his voice rose, filled with the righteous indignation of an elder. "Who else could it have been? Toby, let's be realistic. The moment Vincent and Isabelle got a little close, this happened. We're not fools."
My laugh was devoid of any warmth. "Fine. If you're so certain it was me, Mr. Slate, then I'll wear the accusation. In fact, I'll claim his other leg, too. You should tell him to get comfortable in that wheelchair."
"You—!" The mask of the concerned father finally cracked, his voice turning sharp and shrill. "Toby! Are you trying to burn everything to the ground? After all these years between our families, you'd destroy it all for an outsider?"
"I am," I replied, my voice clipped and final. "Mr. Slate, your family chose a side. I'm simply honoring your decision. Let's tear it all down. It's cleaner that way."
3
Two years ago, at a Crane family dinner, Mr. Slate had pulled my father and me aside. After a few pleasantries, he cautiously brought up a verbal marriage agreement made between my late grandfather and his own. As the Slate family's fortunes had waned, the pact had been all but forgotten.
Mr. Slate's words were earnest, his posture almost subservient, as he spoke of the old friendship between our families.
"Richard," he’d said to my father, "I know this is presumptuous. But my father's greatest wish was to see Isabelle settled. It's our fault, really. The Slate family just hasn't kept up…" He sighed, watching my father's face.
My father was a man of his word, especially when it came to his own father's wishes. "Nonsense, David," he replied. "If our fathers intended this, then it's our duty as their sons to see it through."
Having met Isabelle, I had agreed.
From that day forward, the Crane Corporation began to prop up Slate Industries. Once a struggling second-tier company, they were now flooded with massive orders, given access to unlimited lines of credit, and introduced to our most valuable contacts. Their business shot up like a rocket. Within two years, they went public, securing their place among the city's elite. Mr. Slate transformed from a man who bowed and scraped into the proud chairman of a publicly traded company.
As for Isabelle, I had fulfilled my duties as a fiancé. She loved jewelry, particularly the work of one European designer. I commissioned the artist to create a one-of-a-kind diamond necklace and earring set for her birthday, a project that took six months. She was the envy of all her friends. At every business dinner and private party, I treated her with the utmost respect. When a spoiled heir once spoke to her disrespectfully at a reception, I publicly humiliated him. The message was clear: Isabelle Slate was under my protection, and no one was to treat her as anything less.
I had used my resources to build her family an empire. I had used my patience and wealth to win her affection. I never imagined my reward would be this: a meticulously planned betrayal and a public crucifixion.
Back home, I called my father and laid out the night's events, including Mr. Slate's absurd phone call.
He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "The Crane family does not allow itself to be manipulated."
"If the Slates have chosen to disregard our history, then do what you must. I will back you, no matter what."
With my father's blessing, all restraints were gone.
I sent out a series of directives.
Effective immediately, Crane Corporation and all its subsidiaries were to terminate all business contracts with Slate Industries.
All our partners were to be notified that any continued association with Slate Industries would be considered a hostile act against Crane Corporation.
The orders went out in the dead of night. The vast, cold machinery of my family's empire began to turn.
The next morning, Crane Corp released a formal, impeccably worded statement announcing the termination of our partnership. It was like dropping a boulder into a calm lake. The financial news outlets exploded.
Slate Industries’ stock plummeted the second the market opened. It fell so fast that trading was automatically halted within thirty minutes.
I sat in my office, calmly watching the waterfall of red that represented their company on my screen. Soon, my personal phone rang. Isabelle's name flashed on the display.
I answered. Her voice was a hysterical shriek, a far cry from the tragic heroine of the previous night.
"TOBY! ARE YOU INSANE? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU'RE DOING?!"
"RETRACT THAT STATEMENT NOW! OR I'LL MAKE YOU REGRET IT!"
I didn't bother to respond. I hung up and blocked her number. Threats? She clearly hadn't grasped who held all the cards.
But the Slates' counterattack came faster—and was far dirtier—than I'd anticipated. By noon, the tide of public opinion began to turn.
4
Major social media platforms and forums were flooded with "exposés" about me. The posts were alarmingly uniform, clearly part of a coordinated campaign.
The smear tactics focused on three key points:
First, that I was a ruthless tyrant. An "anonymous ex-employee" claimed I was a dictator at work who verbally abused staff, alleging I once bullied a veteran employee into a stress-induced resignation over a minor mistake. The post was accompanied by a blurry photo of me looking stern.
Second, that my personal life was a moral cesspool. A so-called "insider" revealed that despite my engagement, I kept multiple mistresses, even listing the names of several college students and vague dates and locations, described with salacious detail as if witnessed firsthand.
Third, and most damningly, that I was a psychopath who would stop at nothing to get what I wanted. This narrative, building on the events of the gala, painted me as a monster consumed by jealousy who had hired thugs to brutally break Vincent's leg to force Isabelle into submission. A classic "if I can't have you, no one can" pathology.
This narrative was amplified by an army of bots and paid trolls, who spammed comment sections and pushed hashtags like #CancelCraneCorp, #JusticeForIsabelle, and #SupportTrueLove to the top of trending lists. They had successfully twisted a business dispute into a personal vendetta, painting Crane Corporation as an evil empire crushing two innocent lovers.
Then, to capitalize on the momentum, Isabelle and Vincent went live on a popular streaming platform.
On screen, Isabelle sat with red, swollen eyes, nestled against Vincent in his wheelchair. They both looked like martyrs who had endured unspeakable persecution. They recounted my "atrocities" with tears in their eyes, describing how their pure, beautiful love was being systematically destroyed by me and my family.
Vincent’s performance was masterful. With pained, noble expressions, he told the camera, "I don't blame Mr. Crane. I only blame myself for being too far beneath Isabelle. It was my low status that brought this disaster upon us… But our love is not a crime. We will fight to the end. For this love, we have no regrets!"
The chat exploded. It was a deluge of vitriol from trolls and duped viewers. "TOBY CRANE MUST DIE," "CRANE CORP GO BANKRUPT," "I'm crying for Isabelle and Vincent," the comments scrolled past in a blur. Any stray voice of reason was instantly drowned in a tsunami of hate.
The meticulously planned media blitz worked. After its morning collapse, Slate Industries’ stock miraculously rebounded. Fueled by "sympathy investors" and speculators betting on their "brave resistance" against a corporate giant, the stock surged into the green.
Meanwhile, Crane Corporation’s stock began to tank. The sudden storm of negative PR had investors worried about brand damage and potential legal risks.
I stared at the two starkly contrasting lines on my monitor. One, representing the Slates, soaring against all odds. The other, representing my family, in freefall.
The cold light of the screen illuminated my face as a grim smile touched my lips.
Go on. Dance. Perform.
Did you really think your pathetic little media circus could shake the foundations of my family's legacy? Did you believe the pity of strangers and a few nasty comments could actually hurt me?
How naive.
You've mistaken the battlefield of business for a stage. And you've forgotten the real rules of the game.
Just as Crane Corporation's stock hit its daily trading limit, plummeting as far as it could go, Vincent called. The act was gone. His voice was dripping with undisguised triumph.
"So, Toby. Now do you see how things stand?"
"Out of pity for the two years you spent licking Isabelle's boots, I'll give you two choices. One, you pay a fifty billion dollar 'break-up fee,' and we all walk away. Two, you watch your family's empire crumble into dust and become a broke, forgotten nobody."
I walked to the window, watching the endless stream of traffic below. "I'm choosing option three," I said calmly. "I'm going to send you and the entire Slate family to hell."
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a furious roar. "You're fucking insane—"
I didn't wait to hear the rest. I hung up and turned off my phone.
For the next two days, our stock remained depressed. The online hate campaign continued to rage. The atmosphere in the company was thick with tension, but I went about my business as usual.
On the morning of the third day, when the company’s losses surpassed one hundred billion, I picked up an encrypted phone and sent a short message.
"You can begin."
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