The day I dreaded is finally here.
Glittering chandeliers hung from the high ceilings of the grand hall like constellations, raining golden light onto the marbled floor. The air smelled of wealth—of vintage perfume, aged wine, and the thick, arrogant cologne of men born into power. Laughter echoed, delicate and rehearsed, floating between clusters of people dressed in luxury like it was skin. Silk, satin, diamonds, and pride. They were all here—the country's wealthiest, the kind of people who measured worth in bloodlines and legacy. Billionaires from politics, oil, old aristocratic families. The true elite.
And I was here, standing among them like a painted doll in borrowed glamour.
My dress was a soft pink floral piece, hand-stitched and custom-fitted to cling perfectly to my curves. The sleeves were sheer, falling off my shoulders with a romantic drape, and the bodice hugged my waist like a whisper, flaring gently into a flowing skirt that brushed my ankles with every step. Yale had done my hair in an elegant twisted bun, delicate pink roses tucked in. I looked like I belonged.
But I didn't.
I stood off to the side of the hall, the only bridesmaid not gathered for pictures. Serena looked beautiful, radiant in ivory lace and joy. Her smile reached her eyes, and for a second, I felt something close to pride for her. Unlike the others, Serena had never been cruel to me. Not like Regina. Not like Laura.
I noticed his eyes on me again. Logan's
He stood across the room, dressed in a black tuxedo that fit like a second skin, his gaze locked on me like he couldn't help himself. The same gaze that used to belong to me—before the betrayal. Before I died. Before they all ripped my heart out and buried me with it.
Now, I avoided him like a curse. I have since the very first week we landed into Sans Francisco fro Serena wedding.
I turned away, but it was too late.
"Lia."
His voice was close. Too close.
I inhaled sharply and turned slowly to face him. Logan was standing just a few steps behind me, holding two glasses of champagne and that crooked smile that used to make me weak.
It made me sick now.
"You've been avoiding me," he said, offering a glass. "I thought we were friends."
I took the glass without sipping. "We used to be."
He frowned slightly, like my words had bruised his ego.
"Did I do something wrong?"
Everything.
I smiled tightly. "It's not you, Logan. I've just been busy."
"You weren't busy last night when you walked away from me at the rehearsal dinner."
"I wasn't feeling well."
"Lia…"
His voice dipped, soft with concern, but it only made the walls around me rise higher. I took a step back, desperate to escape the scent of his cologne, the way his eyes clung to me like old promises.
"I need to check on something. I'll be back."
I didn't wait for a reply. I turned and slipped away between two women gossiping in hushed tones about someone's scandalous divorce settlement.
Regina found me before I could even breathe.
"There you are." Her voice was sharp, her expression colder than the diamonds hanging off her ears. "Go to the stela and get another crate of wine. They're almost out of the 1978 Bordeaux."
I blinked. "Me?"
She smiled tightly. "You're not doing anything useful. Make yourself useful."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to shove that wine crate down her entitled throat. But instead, I nodded, thankful for the chance to escape Logan's questions and Laura's burning gaze.
Speaking of which—Laura.
She was standing across the room, half-hidden behind one of the columns, glaring at me with enough venom to kill. Her arm was looped around Logan's now, nails digging into his jacket as if she could feel his attention wasn't hers. She knew. She felt it. And she hated me for it.
Good.
Let her choke on it.
I slipped out of the hall and into the dimly lit corridor, my heels clicking softly on the floor as I moved toward the stela—the storage room near the kitchens where the wines were kept. It was cooler back here, quiet, like the air had thinned away from all the champagne and lies.
I opened the door and stepped in.
The room was lined with wooden shelves stacked with bottles, the air thick with the scent of cork and grapes aged decades. I moved toward the far end, scanning for the Bordeaux.
Click.
The sound behind me was subtle.
I froze.
Slowly, I turned.
A man stood in front of the now-locked door. He was tall, his shoulders broad and uneven, his shirt half-tucked into wrinkled pants. His tie hung loose, like a forgotten noose. His hair was slicked back with sweat, his eyes glassy with drunkenness.
And he was smiling.
That kind of smile.
My blood ran cold.
"What are you doing in here?" I asked, my voice low, steady despite the terror crawling up my spine.
"Looking for a taste," he slurred. "And look what I found."
He staggered forward.
I backed up.
"Stay away from me," I warned.
But he didn't listen.
He grabbed the edge of the shelf beside me, pinning me between wood and his body, the stench of alcohol filling my lungs.
"Pretty thing like you shouldn't be alone," he muttered, grabbing my arm.
I struggled, slapping at his hand, but he was stronger—his grip bruising, his breath hot against my neck.
He reached for my dress.
"No—stop—!"
Fabric tore.
A sharp rip echoed in the silence as my dress came apart at the seams, leaving my shoulder bare. My chest heaved, panic clawing up my throat as he shoved me back harder, trying to force himself on me.
"Get off me!"
I kicked, scratched, fought like my life depended on it—because it did.
But he was relentless. His hand found the zipper at my side, jerking it down in one violent tug. Cold air kissed my skin as my dress sagged lower, baring more than I ever wanted him to see.
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, shame mingling with fury. I couldn't let it happen. I wouldn't.
Then—
BANG.
The door shuddered.
Another bang.
Harder this time. Louder.
Wood cracked.
The man froze, head whipping toward the door.
And then—
CRASH.
The door exploded inward.