Chapter 1

1.

I was holding a positive Clearblue pregnancy test, ready to give my fiancé an ultimatum, when he postponed our wedding for the fifth time.

But in that exact moment, a picture popped up on a popular SoHo street-style account I follow on Instagram.

In the photo, a man with the sleeves of his expensive, custom-tailored shirt rolled up was making handmade pasta at the island of a sun-drenched, open-plan kitchen.

Beside him, a woman holding a baby was smiling like she owned the world.

I recognized the jagged scar on the inside of the man’s wrist instantly.

He got that scar seven years ago, in a dark alley in Cambridge, when a shard of glass severed a tendon in his arm as he shielded me from a bullet fired by a stalker.

Because of that “excessive self-defense,” he lost his full scholarship to Harvard Law, got a violent crime on his record, and said goodbye forever to his dream of working at a top Wall Street firm.

That single act was the root of my seven-year, guilt-ridden love for him.

And now, on the wrist of the woman in the picture, was the matching women’s version of the vintage Patek Philippe watch I’d bought for him. I had to sell the antique Tiffany pearl necklace my mother left me just to afford it.

Engraved on the back were the initials I once thought were sacred: “F & E.”

The sight of it all made it hard to breathe.

I thought about how Elias had been hiding his phone to text lately, and the faint sound of a baby crying I’d sometimes hear when he called, which he always brushed off as “my partner’s kid.”

Just ten minutes earlier, I’d gotten a voicemail from him.

“Faye, listen, something urgent came up with the M&A deal. I can’t make it to Fifth Avenue to try on the tux with you.”

“And… about the wedding, can we push it back again? Next year, baby, I promise. Once the company goes public, we’ll have the biggest wedding in the Hamptons.”

I’d already waited seven damn years for this wedding.

I tore off the “sample wedding dress” I was wearing, grabbed the tailor’s shears from the table, and without a second of hesitation, sliced the silk into ribbons.

Wiping my tears, I scrolled to a number that had been buried at the bottom of my contacts list for seven years.

It was the private number of an heir to one of New York’s true dynasties―an old-money family from the Upper East Side.

“Hey, Liam. My wedding is currently short one groom. Interested in crashing a party and stealing the bride?”

…

There were two seconds of silence on the other end, followed by a low, amused chuckle. The kind of effortless confidence that only a true alpha male possesses.

“Send me your location.”

After I hung up, that Instagram photo hit my heart like a hollow-point bullet.

Seven years. My debt was paid.

The first time he postponed the wedding, he swore it would be the last.

But like the old saying goes: fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

At 3 a.m., the smart lock on our Manhattan apartment clicked open.

Elias was home, bringing the chill of a New York winter night with him.

But he also brought something else: the unfamiliar scent of Johnson's baby powder mixed with Hailey’s favorite perfume, Le Labo Santal 33.

Hailey. My stepsister. The daughter of the woman who broke up my family, who always used her innocent act to steal everything that was mine.

I didn’t turn on the lights. I just sat there on the leather sofa in the living room, watching him walk into the darkness.

The sight of my silhouette clearly startled him. His brow furrowed.

“Faye? Why are you sitting in the dark like a ghost?”

He walked toward me, wrapping his arms around me from behind in that practiced, familiar way he used to smooth everything over.

“The investor meeting was a complete disaster. We were arguing until just now.”

“Why are you still up? I told you not to wait for me.”

His voice was hoarse with exhaustion. He sounded like the perfect, hardworking fiancé.

But he didn't even notice that the wedding dress, which had been on a mannequin in the living room for two weeks, was now a pile of shredded fabric on the floor.

“Where’s my watch?” I asked, my hand clutching the pregnancy test in my pocket. My voice was terrifyingly calm.

His embrace stiffened for a fraction of a second, but only a fraction.

“I was so busy… probably left it in the safe at the office.”

He pulled a small orange box from his coat pocket and pressed it into my hand, his tone a lazy attempt at making amends.

“This is for you. To make up for postponing the wedding.”

I opened it mechanically.

Inside was a Cartier Love necklace.

I remembered seeing this on Hailey’s Instagram story last week.

Her caption read: Cute, but I really want something one-of-a-kind. #nexttime

So, this was just Hailey’s sloppy seconds, something he picked up to shut me up.

And he knew damn well that Hailey wasn’t just my stepsister; she was the daughter of the homewrecker who destroyed my family.

I closed the lid, tossed it on the coffee table like trash, and asked him one last time.

“Elias, are you sure you want to postpone the wedding?”

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, the specific kind of arrogance unique to the newly rich.

“Faye, don’t be dramatic. The company is in a critical pre-IPO stage. I’m working this hard to give you the life you deserve.”

But I never wanted this fake, empty “life.”

I didn’t say another word.

He took my silence as an opportunity, muttering an excuse about having a few urgent emails to reply to before disappearing into his study.

The door closed, leaving me alone in the cold, dark living room.

I picked up my phone and opened Hailey’s latest post.

It was a close-up of a necklace, against the leather seat of Elias’s Porsche.

My hubby is the best. He brought me a necklace late at night, and when I said I didn't love it, he promised to buy me the global limited edition next time. Love you!

And just below the caption, Elias had just liked the post with a red heart.