Emma's POV
The apartment door slams so hard the walls shake.
I jump off the couch, my heart pounding. It's 2:47 AM. Alexander wasn't supposed to be home until morning. He texted three hours ago about an emergency investor meeting that would run all night.
But here he is. And something is very, very wrong.
"Alexander?" My voice sounds small in the dark living room.
He doesn't answer. Just stands there in the doorway, breathing hard like he ran up the stairs. His expensive suit is wrinkled. His hair sticks up in weird angles. And his eyes—God, his eyes look wild. Scared.
"What happened? Are you okay?"
"We need to talk." His voice cracks on the last word.
My stomach drops. Everyone knows what "we need to talk" means. Nothing good ever follows those four words. But this can't be what I think it is. Not tonight. Not fourteen hours before our wedding.
"Did the investors say no?" I ask, trying to sound calm. "It's okay if they did. We'll find other investors. We always figure things out together—"
"It's not about the investors."
"Then what—"
"Sit down, Emma."
"I don't want to sit down. Just tell me what's going on!"
Alexander walks past me to the kitchen. He grabs the counter like he needs it to stay standing. In six years together, I've never seen him like this. My strong, confident Alexander who always knows what to do. Who always has a plan.
"Please," I whisper. "You're scaring me."
He finally turns around. His eyes are red. Has he been crying? Alexander never cries. Not when his first startup failed. Not when his father told him he was a disappointment. Never.
"Victoria called me tonight," he says quietly.
Victoria. My stepsister. Why would she call Alexander at midnight?
"Okay," I say slowly. "What did she want?"
"She told me something. Something important." Alexander swallows hard. "Emma, Victoria is dying."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest.
"What? What do you mean dying?"
"She has six months to live. Maybe less. The doctors told her family today. It's terminal."
My brain can't process this. Victoria? My twenty-four-year-old stepsister who just posted photos from the gym yesterday? Who texted me this morning about how excited she was for my wedding?
"That's impossible. She's healthy. She's—"
"She's been sick for months, Emma. She just hid it well." Alexander's voice gets stronger now. More certain. "She has a rare blood condition. There's no cure. Six months is the best-case scenario."
"Oh my God." I sink onto the couch. "Does Dad know? Does Patricia?"
"Everyone knows. They've been keeping it quiet because Victoria didn't want people treating her differently." Alexander sits beside me. Too close. "Emma, Victoria has a dying wish."
Something cold crawls up my spine. "A wish?"
"She wants to get married before she dies. She wants to wear a wedding dress, walk down an aisle, have that one perfect day. She's never had a serious boyfriend. Never been engaged. And now she never will because—"
"Because she's dying," I finish, my voice breaking. Despite everything between Victoria and me, despite the years of competition and comparison, I can't imagine dying at twenty-four. Never falling in love. Never getting married. Never having children.
"That's heartbreaking," I whisper. "We should help her. Maybe we can set her up with someone. One of your friends from college is single, right? Maybe—"
"Emma." Alexander grabs my hands. His grip is too tight. "Victoria doesn't want to marry a stranger."
My heart stops.
"She wants to marry me."
The room tilts. The coffee maker gurgles in the background. A car horn honks outside. Normal sounds in a world that suddenly makes no sense.
"She wants... what?"
"Victoria has been in love with me for years. She never said anything because we were together. But now that she's dying, she asked me directly. She begged me, Emma. With tears streaming down her face."
I pull my hands away. "What are you saying right now?"
Alexander stands up. Starts pacing. "She has six months to live. Six months to experience being married. Being someone's wife. Having that happiness before—"
"Alexander, what are you SAYING?"
He stops pacing. Looks directly at me. His eyes are hard now. Decided.
"I'm going to marry Victoria instead of you. Tomorrow."
The words don't make sense. They can't be real. This is a nightmare. I'm going to wake up any second and Alexander will be beside me and tomorrow will be our wedding day like it's supposed to be.
But I don't wake up.
"Instead of me," I repeat slowly. "Tomorrow. On our wedding day."
"It's the compassionate thing to do, Emma. She's dying. She'll never have another chance. But you and I—we have our whole lives. We have forever."
"Forever?" I stand up, anger exploding in my chest. "You're leaving me the day before our wedding and talking about forever?"
"I'm not LEAVING you!" Alexander shouts. "I'm postponing! Once Victoria passes away, once I've given her this final gift of happiness, I'll come back to you. We can get married then. In six months. Maybe a year. You'll wait for me, right?"
I stare at him. Really look at him. At this man I've loved for six years. The man I worked three jobs for. The man I gave my inheritance to. The man I paid rent for while he built his dream.
"You want me to wait," I say softly. "You want me to accept a secondhand marriage after my dying stepsister is done with you."
"Don't say it like that—"
"How should I say it, Alexander? How should I describe you marrying another woman on what was supposed to be OUR wedding day?"
"She's DYING!" His voice cracks. "Can't you think about someone else for once? Can't you be COMPASSIONATE? This isn't about us. It's about giving a dying woman her last wish!"
"What about MY wishes?" Tears stream down my face. "What about the six years I gave you? The three jobs I still work? My inheritance that I gave you? The dreams I buried so you could chase yours?"
"You can wait six months," Alexander says coldly. The gentleness is gone now. "If you really loved me, you'd understand. You'd be happy to sacrifice for someone who's dying."
Sacrifice. That word. I've been sacrificing for six years.
"Get out," I whisper.
"What?"
"GET OUT OF MY APARTMENT!" I scream. "The one I pay for! The one I work three jobs to afford while you play businessman! GET OUT!"
Alexander grabs his keys from the counter. "You're being selfish, Emma. I thought you were better than this. I thought you had a bigger heart."
He walks to the door. Stops. Turns back with cold eyes.
"The wedding is already paid for. The venue, the flowers, the food, the photographer. We'll just change the bride. Victoria is about your size." He pauses. "She can wear your dress."
My dress. The one I spent three months hand-sewing. The silver thread I bought with my waitressing tips. The lace I saved for. The pearls I added one by one.
Victoria can wear my dress.
"I'll call you in a few days," Alexander says. "When you've calmed down and you're ready to be reasonable about this. When you're ready to do the right thing."
The door closes.
I stand frozen in my kitchen. Shaking. Unable to process what just happened.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
A text from Victoria: *"I'm so sorry, Emma. I never meant to hurt you. I know this is hard to understand. But I'm dying, and I just want one perfect day before I go. Please forgive me. Please understand. You'll have him back soon. I promise."*
Another text: *"Thank you for being so generous. You always were the better person. The kinder sister. I'll take good care of your dress tomorrow."*
I stare at the messages.
Then I start laughing.
It bubbles up from my chest—loud, hysterical, uncontrollable laughter. I laugh until tears pour down my face. I laugh until my sides hurt. I laugh until the laughter turns into choking sobs.
Because Victoria can have my wedding tomorrow.
She can wear my dress.
She can marry my fiancé.
She can have everything I worked for.
But she's not dying.
I know she's not.
Because last week, I was at Dad's house dropping off some documents. I needed to use the bathroom. On my way, I passed his home office. The door was open. Papers covered his desk.
And right on top, in plain view, was a medical report with Victoria's name.
I only saw it for a second. But I have a good memory.
The words "chronic condition," "manageable," and "normal life expectancy" were right there in black and white.
Not "terminal."
Not "dying."
Not "six months to live."
Victoria is lying.
And everyone—Dad, Patricia, Alexander—they all believe her.
Or maybe they don't believe her.
Maybe they just don't care.
Maybe they wanted this to happen.
Maybe I was always supposed to be the sacrifice.
I walk to my bedroom. Look at my wedding dress hanging on the closet door. That dress represents three months of work. Countless hours of sewing after my waitressing shifts. Every stitch was sewn with love. With hope. With dreams of tomorrow.
Tomorrow, Victoria will wear it.
Tomorrow, Alexander will marry her.
Tomorrow, I will have nothing.
I grab my phone and open my banking app. I stare at the number there. After six years of three jobs, after paying all our rent, after giving Alexander my inheritance, I have exactly $847 in my account.
Eight hundred forty-seven dollars.
That's what I have left after giving everything to a man who just threw me away for my stepsister's lie.
My phone buzzes again.
Another text from Victoria: *"By the way, Dad and I talked. He agrees you've been selfish lately. He's going to have a conversation with you about your inheritance trust fund. About redistributing family assets more fairly, since I'll need medical care. Hope you understand. Family takes care of family, right?"*
They're going to take my trust fund too.
The money my mother left me.
The last piece of her I have left.
I sink to the floor, my back against the bed, and I finally let myself break.
I cry for the six years I wasted.
I cry for the dreams I buried.
I cry for my mother who would be heartbroken to see this.
I cry until I have nothing left inside.
Then my phone rings.
Unknown number.
I almost don't answer. But something makes me pick up.
"Hello?" My voice sounds destroyed.
"Emma Chen?" A man's voice. Deep. Unfamiliar. "My name is Damien Cross. I know what happened tonight. I know what they did to you. And I want to help you destroy every single one of them."
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone in the dark room, my wedding dress hanging like a ghost in front of me.
Who is Damien Cross?
How does he know what happened tonight?
And why does part of me—the part that's done crying, done sacrificing, done being the good girl—want to call him back and say yes?
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*End of Chapter 1*