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My world shattered when my fiancé Ethan's "work wife," Chloe, announced her pregnancy with his baby at his Vegas bachelor party. Then came his outrageous "solution": he'd live with her during the week to "support the baby," and I'd be his "weekend wife" at our Hamptons home, our wedding indefinitely postponed. Eight years of my life, discarded like trash. His family's snickers about my "new money" and "frivolous" Art History degree, his casual critiques – it all swirled into a bitter cocktail. I was expected to be "mature," to accept being his mere diversion. The humiliation deepened when Chloe began taunting me on social media, proclaiming her "blessed" new life with *my* fiancé. The final blow came at the alumni gala: Chloe faked a fall, and Ethan, in a fit of rage, *slapped me in front of everyone*, his loyalties clear. He truly believed I'd crawl back. But just as I thought I'd drown in despair, a drunken call from my childhood friend, Noah, brought a lifeline: "Marry me, Ava." In that desperate, raw moment, I said yes. I ripped off Ethan's ring and walked out, not just from him, but from the gilded cage he'd trapped me in. This wasn't a tantrum; it was my defiant escape. And I was going to burn every bridge on the way out.