As I spoke, I produced a marriage contract I had just paid to rush-print from a street vendor’s ad.
It read: Our son Jason Miller and your daughter Claire Hamilton are hereby bound in engagement, to wed when the girl turns twenty-four.
Viewers in the livestream, half-skeptical, immediately began cursing Claire.
“So what if you’re rich? A promise is a promise!”
“Because she’s a billionaire’s daughter, she can just call it off?”
The onlookers at the scene also began criticizing Claire for breaking her word.
“Didn’t think the Hamiltons would be so faithless.”
Stomping her foot in anger, Claire cursed, “You—you’re full of crap!”
Her admirers and companions fumed.
“You broke loser, waving a scrap of paper and claiming Claire is your wife?”
“Bastard, I think he’s just here to cause trouble—beat him!”
Most of them were spoiled rich kids, reckless and fearless. They all rushed at me.
I hurriedly slammed the door shut.
Now it was just the two of us alone in the room, the atmosphere tense.
Claire grew frightened, instinctively covering her chest. “Don’t… don’t you dare. That’s a crime!”
Outside, her companions shouted threats, pounded the door, and even warned they would call the police.