The Art of Fake Trauma

My fiance secretly moved the intern I had spent the last year mentoring into our townhouse.

To give him status and legitimacy, she threw away our families reputations and unilaterally called off our engagement right in the middle of our engagement gala.

My father walked out of the ballroom in a silent, freezing fury. My mother, clutching her chest, sank into her chair with a heavy sigh.

Every guest in the room was whispering, laughing at me behind their champagne flutes, treating me like the useful idiot who had spent years building a throne for another man to sit on.

What they didn't know was that the moment the relatives cleared out, the three of us were in the private VIP lounge, calmly playing a hand of Gin Rummy.

My father discarded a King. "A tactical retreat. I'm transferring you to our London office for six months. Out of sight, out of mind."

My mother drew from the deck and matched her cards. "We play along. Let him be the innocent, misunderstood victim. You play the gentle, brokenhearted martyrthe one that got away."

I drew my last card, looked at my hand, and smiled. "Fine. Then I'll start by having a nervous breakdown."

The next morning, I didnt bother packing much. I took only the essentials and boarded a flight to London.

Before I left, I deactivated my primary social media accounts. I cut off all contact with my social circle back home, leaving only an automated email response: Currently undergoing psychological therapy. Please respect my privacy and do not disturb.

Six months later, New York City. The Midwinter Benefit Gala.

This was the premier event on the citys social calendar, a glittering playground of wealth and influence.

I stood in the mezzanine VIP lounge, wearing a bespoke black tuxedo and holding a glass of champagne, looking down coldly at the main hall.

"Nicholas, Caroline and Jamie just arrived," Maeve, my executive assistant, murmured in my ear.

I followed her gaze.

Caroline was wearing a deep emerald gown, walking through the crowd arm-in-arm with Jamie. Six months apart had changed her. She looked noticeably thinner, a persistent, weary shadow hanging over her brow. Jamie, on the other hand, was in an oversized white tuxedo, looking around with a mix of nervous insecurity and cheap excitement.

I swallowed the champagne, hiding the cold amusement in my eyes. My stomach burned slightly, but my mind was sharper than ever.

The curtain was going up.

I walked down the grand staircase, intentionally slowing my pace. Just as I reached the edge of the exhibition hall, I heard a sharp, crystal shatter, followed by a hushed gasp from the crowd.

"Do you have eyes in your head? That was a Tang Dynasty glazed charger!" A heavy-set, middle-aged venture capitalist, Richard Franklin, was red-faced with rage, pointing at the shards on the floor.

Jamie stood there, face paper-white, holding a half-empty glass of red wine, stammering, "I... I didn't mean to. Someone bumped into me..."

Caroline rushed over. Seeing the ruins and the furious investor, her expression darkened. She took a deep breath, stepping forward with a tight, apologetic smile.

"Mr. Franklin, I am so sorry. My assistant, hes new to these events..."

"If he doesn't know how to behave, don't bring him out to embarrass you!" Franklin snapped, completely ignoring her attempt to smooth things over. "The reserve price for this piece was over a million dollars. If NovaTech can't cover it, expect a lawsuit on your desk tomorrow morning!"

The surrounding guests whispered, their judging eyes stinging Caroline like a swarm of needles. Jamie shrunk behind her, eyes red, clutching her sleeve, trembling.

I chose that exact moment to step through the crowd.

"Uncle Richard, it's been a while. Deep breaths." I handed him a clean silk pocket square, my voice warm and steady.

Franklin blinked, recognizing me, and the anger on his face melted into surprise. "Nicholas? When did you get back from London? Your father was just talking about you the other day."

"Just got back," I replied with a polite smile, looking down at the fragments. "I actually studied this piece in the pre-auction catalog. It had a hairline fracture near the rim to begin with. Do me a favor, Uncle Richardlet me buy you a drink. Whichever piece catches your eye tonight is on my tab. Consider it a personal apology from me on their behalf."

Franklin let out a hearty laugh, gladly taking the exit ramp Id offered. "Since youre the one asking, Nicholas, I can't say no."

The crisis dissolved under my casual touch.

Jamie peeked out from behind Caroline, looking at me like I was a savior. "Nicholas... thank you," he whispered, his eyes rimmed with red. "I really didn't mean to. I'm just not used to these events... I caused so much trouble for Caroline."

I turned away, ignoring his pathetic act, only to meet Caroline's shocked, heavy gaze. Her lips parted, wanting to say something, but I walked past her toward the terrace.

I had only taken a few steps before I heard the rapid click of heels behind me.

"Nicholas!" Caroline called out, stopping two steps away.

She stared at me, her eyes incredibly complex. "Lucas and the others said... you've been in psychiatric care for the last six months. Are you really..."

I stopped, turned, and looked at her. The dim hallway light hit my face. To play the part of a broken man, I had lost fifteen pounds over the last six months. My jawline was sharper, the gentle warmth of my old self stripped away, replaced by a cold, fragile distance.

"You worry too much, Ms. Mercer." I looked away, leaving her standing there, and walked out to the smoking deck.

The late autumn wind was freezing.

I held a cigarette, watching the ember flare and fade. I never used to smoke. Caroline had mild asthma and couldn't stand the smell. Back then, I'd skip entire social gatherings if they involved smoke. Once, when she craved pastries from a bakery uptown at midnight, I drove across the city in the freezing rain to get them. I used to hold her like a fragile glass doll.

But she found that love suffocating, too predictable.

Instead, she threw herself into the arms of an intern who did nothing but cause trouble and cry for her forgiveness.

The glass door slid open, and Caroline walked out. She frowned at the cigarette but said nothing.

"You... never used to smoke," her voice was dry.

"People change." I tapped the ash, not putting it out, keeping my back to her. "The doctors in London said a little vice helps keep the mind grounded."

Her breath caught. She stared at my silhouette, a sharp pang of guilt and pain crossing her face.

"Nicholas, I'm so sorry... and thank you for helping us with Franklin. I apologize on Jamie's behalf."

"It was nothing. NovaTech is in a crucial growth phase; offending Franklin wouldn't do you any favors." I turned to look at her. "You didn't use to be this reckless. If you bring someone green to a wolves' den, choose your venue. Business isn't a playground. No one is going to keep bailing him out."

Caroline gave a bitter smile, pulling her thin shawl tighter around her shoulders. "I know... When you were around, I never had to worry about these things."

The atmosphere had just begun to soften when the terrace door slid open again.

"Caroline, it's freezing out here." Jamie walked over, holding a coat, and draped it over her shoulders, naturally letting his hand rest on her shoulder.

Caroline's body stiffened. She instinctively wanted to pull away, but under my gaze, she forced herself to stay still.

Jamie looked down, gently tugging at her sleeve. "Nicholas, thank you. Caroline always said you were the best at taking care of people. Even now, with your illness, you're still so thoughtful. I'll learn from Caroline so you won't have to worry about us anymore."

I looked at his transparent act and felt nothing but amusement.

"I'm tired, I think I'll head out." I stubbed out the cigarette, ignoring his posturing. I looked at Caroline, my voice gentle but distant. "Your stomach is sensitive. Don't drink iced champagne. Go home early."

I turned and walked away.

As the glass door closed behind me, I caught Carolines reflection in the glass. She was subtly twisting her body, slipping out of Jamie's touch.

In my second week back, I officially took over the core M&A and venture capital division at Beacon Holdings.

Business has no permanent enemies, only permanent interests.

Caroline's independent tech startup, NovaTech, was desperate for our Series C funding. Without it, her cash runway would dry up next month.

On Wednesday, during the evaluation meeting, Caroline and her team sat across from me in the boardroom. And Jamie, her "special assistant," was actually presenting the pitch deck.

"Mr. Davenport, here is our latest user growth projection..." Jamie stood at the projector, laser pointer trembling. He was trying to act like a Wall Street prodigy, but his stiff posture and constant glances at his notes gave him away.

I leaned back, spinning my Montblanc pen, listening in silence for ten minutes.

"Stop," I said, tossing the deck onto the glass table. "Turn to page three."

Jamie scrambled, dropping his notes.

"Your page three projects a 150% year-over-year compound user growth rate. But page five's customer acquisition cost is calculated at barely 30% of the industry average." I looked at Jamie, my eyes cold. "Assistant Miller, are you planning to acquire users through pure faith? Or is this model just a poorly assembled fabrication?"

The room froze. Jamie's face went red, tears welling up. He bit his lip, his voice trembling.

"Nicholas... I know I'm not as smart as you, and you've always looked down on me. But I pulled three all-nighters calculating these numbers. Even if you're still angry about Caroline and me... please don't take it out on NovaTech. Caroline is exhausted..."

Caroline's face went rigid. She interrupted him, trying to keep her composure. "Enough, Jamie. Mr. Davenport is just doing his job. Don't bring personal feelings into this." She turned to me, trying to save face. "Mr. Davenport, he's new to this. We'll audit the numbers again."

I watched the circus. Without saying a word, I opened my drawer, pulled out a white plastic prescription bottle, and swallowed a pill dry.

Caroline's eyes trembled. A sharp pang of guilt and panic crossed her face.

"Ms. Mercer," I said, washing down the bitterness with a sip of water, my voice flat. "You know the M&A division's policy. We look at data, not tears. This pitch deck is rejected. I'll give you three days to rewrite it. If it's still at this level, Beacon Holdings will withdraw from the round."

I stood up, grabbed my coat. "Meeting adjourned."

As I walked out, I heard Caroline's low, furious scolding and Jamie's whimpering.

Once, when she was first starting NovaTech, I stayed up all night holding her hand, rewriting her terrible pitch decks. Now, she finally got to pay the price for her chosen incompetent.

Jamie panicked.

Caroline hadn't returned to their shared apartment for three days, sleeping at the office to fix the deck. Jamie was the laughingstock of the company.

Friday night, pouring rain.

I stayed late at the office reviewing quarterly reports. At 11:00 PM, the door opened. Jamie stood there, soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead like a stray dog.

He approached, voice trembling. "Nicholas... please, have mercy. Approve NovaTech's funding."

I sat in my chair, watching him in the dim light. Since I didn't speak, he bit his lip and dropped to his knees, tears hitting the carpet.

"Nicholas, I know you hate me. If you sign the term sheet to save NovaTech, I... I'll leave Caroline. I'm not good enough for her. You're the only one who can help her."

I looked at his manipulative, hypocritical performance.

"Jamie, the only thing blocking NovaTech's funding is your sheer incompetence. Put away the victim act. If you want to leave, the door is behind you."

That struck a nerve. Seeing that his tears didn't work, a flash of malice crossed his eyes. He looked around, and his gaze locked onto the heavy crystal ashtray on my desk.

In the next second, he grabbed it and slammed it hard against his own forehead!

A dull thud. Blood welled up instantly, streaming down his pale, distorted face. He collapsed to the floor, clutching his bleeding head, and dialed Caroline's number.

"Caroline... help me..." his voice turned into a weak, terrified sob. "I came to beg Nicholas for mercy... but he had an episode... he hit me with the ashtray... he said he wants to kill me..."

Within twenty minutes, Caroline burst through the door. Seeing a bloody Jamie, she gasped. Jamie crawled into her arms, shivering. "Caroline, it hurts... don't blame Nicholas, it's my fault... I shouldn't have triggered his condition..."

Caroline glared at me, eyes red, voice shaking. "Nicholas, I know we hurt you, I know you're sick! But even if Jamie made you angry, you can't just try to kill someone!"

I didn't argue or explain.

I curled myself into my leather chair, half my face buried in the shadows of the unlit room. I gripped the armrests so hard my knuckles turned white. My chest heaved violently, as if trapped in a state of sheer terror and trauma.

An absolute picture of a triggered, deeply traumatized patient.

Caroline froze. She didn't expect this desperate, defensive reaction. Her anger turned into hesitation.

Just as she was about to speak

Click-clack.

Maeve, my assistant, walked in wearing heels, holding a police report and an iPad. She stood between Caroline and me, blocking her. She tapped the screen, lighting it up right in front of their faces.

"Ms. Mercer, I've already called the police on your behalf," Maeve said, her voice dripping with mockery. "But before they arrive, I suggest you watch this high-definition, multi-angle security footage. Let's see if Mr. Davenport had a psychotic break, or if someone... got desperate enough to put on a self-mutilating show."