My fiancé died before our wedding — three months later, his mother saw me at another wedding and immediately tried to hide.

I didn't head back to the courtyard immediately. Instead, I bypassed the grand ballroom and slipped down the carpeted hallway toward the private bridal holding suites on the second floor—the area reserved exclusively for the bride and her immediate family.

My heart was hammering against my ribs like a caged bird, but my mind was operating with terrifying, crystalline efficiency.

I needed to find Victoria Sterling.

Outside Suite 204, a private security guard hired for the event stood with his arms crossed over his tailored tuxedo vest. He glanced down at my florist badge and nodded respectfully. "Delivery for the bride?"

"Urgent floral adjustment," I said smoothly, lifting the flat cardboard box I had grabbed from my supply cart on the way up. "The bride requested a last-minute addition of white orchids to her cascading bouquet. If I don't pin them in right now before she walks down the stairs, the stems will bleed on her silk dress."

The guard hesitated for a fraction of a second, then stepped aside and tapped on the heavy white door. "Mrs. Sterling, your florist is here with a quick adjustment."

"Send her in!" a sharp, aristocratic voice called from within.

I pushed the door open and stepped into a sunlit sanctuary filled with mirrors, garment racks, and the overpowering scent of expensive French perfume.

Sitting in front of a velvet vanity table, breathtaking in a custom Vera Wang gown encrusted with hand-stitched pearls, was Victoria Sterling. Her dark hair was swept up into an intricate chignon, and her makeup was flawless. But as she turned to look at me in the mirror, I saw the tension pinching the corners of her eyes.

"Make it quick," Victoria said, not bothering to turn around. "I have fifteen minutes before my father escorts me down to the lawn."

I closed the heavy oak door behind me and turned the deadbolt with a sharp, metallic click.

Victoria stiffened, her gaze snapping up to meet mine in the mirror. "Excuse me? What are you doing?"

I walked slowly across the plush rug until I was standing directly behind her chair. I set the empty box down on the vanity table, right beside her diamond-encrusted bridal clutch.

"I’m here to deliver some wedding congratulations, Victoria," I said, my voice eerily calm. "Though I’m afraid the groom forgot to mention a few important details about his previous marital status."

Victoria stood up so fast her chair screeched against the hardwood floor. She turned to face me, her eyes narrowing with aristocratic disdain. "Who do you think you are? Security! Get this—"

"You might want to save your breath," I interrupted, pulling my phone out of my apron pocket. I tapped the screen twice, bringing up a secure cloud folder, and turned it toward her face. "Do you recognize this man?"

On the screen was a high-resolution photograph taken six months ago: Adrian and me smiling on a beach in Cape Cod, holding up our engagement ring to the sunset. Beneath it was a screenshot of our verified marriage license application, followed by the official obituary notice published in the City Gazette three months ago.

Victoria stared at the screen, her aristocratic composure cracking instantly. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her skin looking like powdered chalk against her dark hair.

"What... what is this?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Who are you?"

"My name is Meredith Vance," I said quietly. "I am Adrian Parker’s fiancée. Or rather, I was his fiancée, until his mother and he faked his death in a car crash three months ago so he could clear his family’s debts, bury his criminal liability, and marry a wealthy shipping heiress with enough cash to bail out his father's failing corporation."

Victoria staggered backward, her hand flying to her chest, clutching the pearls at her neck. "That’s... that’s insane. Adrian told me his ex-fiancée died of an illness two years ago! He told me he was completely unattached when we met at the charity gala last winter!"

"He's a very convincing liar," I replied smoothly. "He practiced for three months while I cried over an empty box of ashes. He told me I was an anchor around his neck. And now, he's about to stand at that altar and lie to you, your father, and every single guest sitting out on that lawn."

Victoria’s chest heaved as she fought for breath. The pristine illusion of her fairy-tale wedding dissolved into ash before her eyes. The shock in her expression quickly curdled into a dark, incandescent rage—the kind of fury only a proud, wealthy woman publicly humiliated can muster.

"Where is he?" she whispered, her voice shaking with venom.

"Downstairs in the groom's suite," I said. "Practicing his smile."

Victoria reached down, picked up her heavy crystal champagne flute from the vanity, and hurled it against the opposite wall. It shattered into a thousand glittering shards.