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My Thanksgiving engagement party was supposed to be the start of my perfect life. My fiancé, Ethan, beamed, arm around me, announcing our future to millions of live-stream followers. He presented a shimmering "10-carat" diamond and a suitcase supposedly stuffed with $250,000 cash, a dream come true. But days later, that dream shattered. I walked into our new apartment and found him with Chloe, my best friend, my maid of honor. They weren' t even sorry. The "engagement gift" cash? Mostly prop money, "FOR MOTION PICTURE USE ONLY" stamped on the bills. Then they flipped the script. They screamed I was the thief, that I' d swapped the money. Their brutal social media campaign painted me as a gold digger, a liar. Legal fees bankrupted me, friends vanished. The world turned its back. Anxiety became my shadow. In a desolate, snow-covered parking lot, Ethan' s radicalized fans, convinced I had destroyed their idol, emerged from the swirling snow. The last thing I felt was the cold, then a sharp, searing pain, then nothing. A life unjustly stolen, a future erased by a con artist and a betrayer. I woke with a gasp, heart hammering. Sunlight streamed through my old bedroom window. The date on my phone: Thanksgiving morning. The day of the engagement party. The trauma was real, but so was the second chance. This time, I wouldn't be the victim. This time, they would pay.