His Final Betrayal Was My First Move Chapter 31

His Final Betrayal Was My First Move Chapter 31

At the Museum of Fine Arts charity dinner, the agitated Griffin finally exploded. He dragged Daphne to a corner of the terrace, his voice suppressed like a volcano about to erupt.

“What the hell are you doing? Whitaker Venture’s stock fell fifteen percent today, and you spent the price of a Porsche on Fifth Avenue!”

Daphne shook off his hand. Alcohol and days of online attacks had reddened her eyes, but her posture remained proud.

“So? That’s your problem, Griffin! You’re useless. You can’t protect your own company, and now you’re blaming me for spending money?”

“I’m useless?” Griffin laughed with rage. He pointed at the glaring transaction record on his phone. “That Oscar de la Renta dress—was that for me tonight, or for that damn musician?”

The sentence was like a poisoned needle, striking Daphne’s most vulnerable nerve. Her disguise collapsed. Screaming, she raised her hand and slapped Griffin hard across the face.

“You bastard!” she cried, her voice piercing enough to draw the eyes of the entire room. “I gave up everything for you, and now you’re accusing me? You don’t love me anymore!”

This once-in-a-century drama unfolded in full view. Under everyone’s gaze, Daphne began wildly tearing at the fifty-thousand-dollar couture gown on her body. Silk ripped with an ear-piercing sound. The scene spun completely out of control.

To make things even more chaotic, Zack appeared from a corner, shoved Griffin aside, and took up a “hero saving the beauty” pose.

“Hey, man, stay away from her!”

Bloodshot rage burst in Griffin’s eyes. The humiliation, betrayal, and business pressure of the past weeks found an outlet. Like a crazed animal, he threw a punch straight at Zack’s face. The two men—one a well-dressed financial executive, the other a musician in ripped jeans—brawled over a disgraced woman at Boston’s most refined social event.

Not a single guest stepped forward to stop them. They just raised their phones, flashes popping. Someone’s assistant even started an Instagram livestream.

The video instantly exploded online. The headlines varied: “Boston High-Society Fairy Tale Collapses Live,” “Wall Street ATM Fights Brooklyn Loser Over Cheating Girlfriend.” In the video, Daphne screamed like a madwoman, a far cry from the sweet socialite image she had so carefully cultivated.

The internet feasted on it, cracking dark jokes in the comments.

“So the lesson is: don’t give someone with no credit history an unlimited credit card.”

“Griffin Whitaker, philanthropist of the year. Main beneficiaries: a con artist and her lover.”

Online sleuths compiled all of her previously exposed dirt, from how she had used Amelia as a pawn in college to the “empty seat” dramas she had staged. The screenshot of Amelia calmly putting away Griffin’s place card at the Harvard Club dinner was placed beside it for comparison.

Now, the entire internet couldn’t decide whether to mock Griffin for getting what he deserved or for being the ultimate sucker.

The three bruised and battered people in the hospital ward knew nothing of the online carnival.

The next morning, Griffin woke on his office sofa, bruises still on his face. He didn’t look at the news. He just picked up the phone and expressionlessly called his private client manager at American Express.

“Cancel the supplementary Black Card ending in 7002. Immediately.”

The second call went to his lawyer. “Draft an eviction notice. Get her out of the penthouse. Yes, today.”

The third call went to his father’s assistant. “Notify Mr. Vale that all informal financial support from our family to his company is terminated.”

He didn’t even want to see them again.

Daphne’s family had already been on the brink of collapse due to her father’s poor decisions and had only been surviving on the Whitakers’ secret financial support. Now that lifeline was cut. Filing for bankruptcy was only a matter of time.

When Daphne’s Black Card was declined at Hermès, when the apartment manager politely asked her to leave, she finally realized the end had come. She frantically called Zack, who replied lazily, “Oh, you’re out of money? Good luck with that,” before blocking her number.

With nothing left, Daphne wandered the streets like a ghost in yesterday’s torn Oscar de la Renta gown. Her only thought was to find Griffin.

She began lying in wait for him at the entrances of every five-star hotel, private club, and high-end restaurant where he might appear. But every time she saw him and tried to rush over, she would be stopped by a tall, expressionless man in a proper suit, his eyes as cold as a former special ops soldier’s.

He never spoke. He just stood like a wall, solidly blocking her from Griffin’s world, ensuring she could never get within a step of him again.