"Marry me instead," Patrick repeated, his voice smooth and entirely serious.

I stared at him. The ocean breeze whipped a strand of hair across my face, but I didn't brush it away.

"Are you out of your mind?" I asked.

Patrick chuckled, taking another sip of his whiskey. "Highly logical, actually."

Heavy footsteps pounded against the wooden deck behind us.

"Winter!" Erick yelled.

Patrick stepped aside, gesturing toward the approaching groom with his silver lighter. "Your trash is catching up."

Erick stormed down the corridor, his face flushed an angry crimson. He clutched the platinum diamond ring in his right fist.

He stopped a few feet away, chest heaving. He didn't even notice Patrick standing in the shadows of the stairwell.

"Is this a joke to you?" Erick demanded, pointing the ring at me.

"I didn't stutter," I replied. "The wedding is off."

Erick scoffed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "You always do this. You throw a tantrum, expect me to chase you, and make a scene in front of our families."

"I am not throwing a tantrum."

"Are you threatening me with a breakup again over a dress?" he shouted. "Over a dying woman's final wish?"

I closed the distance between us. I reached out, grabbed his right wrist, and forcibly uncurled his fingers.

He stared at me in confusion.

I pressed the ring firmly into the center of his palm and folded his fingers back over the diamond.

"I am not threatening you," I stated, keeping my voice deadpan. "I am informing you."

Erick’s jaw dropped. The confident anger drained from his face, replaced by genuine shock.

Before he could formulate a response, the sound of dragging fabric echoed down the hall.

Sabrina shuffled toward us. She tripped over the hem of my custom silk gown, catching herself against the mahogany paneled wall.

She clutched her chest, coughing violently.

"Erick," she gasped, her voice trembling. "Please don't fight. It's my fault."

Erick instantly abandoned our conversation. He rushed to her side, wrapping a protective arm around her fragile shoulders.

"Don't stress yourself, Brina," he murmured, his tone shifting to gentle concern. "Your heart can't take it."

Sabrina buried her face against his lapel. "I just didn't want to leave this world with regrets. I wanted to see what it felt like. I'm sorry."

Erick glared at me over her head.

"Look at her, Winter," he snapped. "She is dying. How can you be so cold-blooded?"

I laughed.

The sound was sharp and dry. It echoed down the narrow corridor, completely devoid of humor.

Erick flinched. He clearly expected me to cry, or yell, or beg him to choose me.

"Cold-blooded?" I asked. "Let's talk about her timing."

"Stop it," Erick warned, tightening his grip on Sabrina.

"Our high school graduation," I said, raising a single finger. "She fainted during my valedictorian speech. You carried her to the nurse and missed the rest of the ceremony."

Sabrina whimpered, sinking deeper into his embrace.

"My college acceptance party," I continued, raising a second finger. "She had a severe panic attack. You spent the entire night in the bathroom, holding her hand."

"She was sick!" Erick shouted.

"She is sick every single time the spotlight is on me," I fired back, my voice ringing loud enough for the guests lingering near the deck to hear.

A few bridesmaids peeked around the corner, their eyes wide.

I took a step closer to the couple. "My birthdays. Our anniversaries. The day you proposed. And now, my wedding day."

Erick shook his head. "You are being paranoid and cruel."

I locked eyes with Sabrina. She peeked out from Erick’s jacket, her expression entirely composed despite the fake sobs racking her shoulders.

"Ninety-nine times, Sabrina," I said. "Your 'terminal illness' has impeccable scheduling."

"Winter, that is enough," Erick snarled. "The doctors gave her six months! Have some basic human decency!"

"Did they?" a deep voice interrupted.

Patrick stepped out of the shadows.

Erick jumped, finally realizing we weren't alone. "Gallagher? When did you get here? What does this have to do with you?"

Patrick ignored him. He casually tossed his empty whiskey glass onto a nearby side table.

He reached into his tailored navy jacket and pulled out a folded stack of papers.

"I had my team do a little digging when I heard the tragic news about Miss Lowe," Patrick said, his tone perfectly conversational.

He extended his arm, handing the documents directly to me.

"What is that?" Erick asked, his eyes darting between Patrick and the papers.

"A medical report," Patrick replied. He turned his gaze toward the growing crowd of guests who had followed Sabrina down the hall.

I unfolded the thick parchment. The logo for Mount Sinai Hospital sat neatly at the top.

My eyes scanned the highlighted sections.

Blood tests. Scans. Heart rate monitoring.

Everything was completely, undeniably normal.

"From Mount Sinai," Patrick announced to the stunned audience. "Dated yesterday."

Erick swallowed hard. "What are you talking about?"

Patrick tilted his head, fixing a predatory stare on Sabrina.

"If she really only has a few months to live," Patrick asked, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade, "why do her test results show she doesn't have a terminal illness at all?"

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

Whispers erupted instantly.

"Not sick?" a groomsman muttered.

"She told everyone it was stage four," my maid of honor whispered loudly.

I looked up from the papers.

Sabrina’s fake tears instantly vanished. Her entire body went rigid. She didn't cough. She didn't sway.

For the first time in ten years, she looked absolutely terrified.

Erick looked down at the woman in his arms, his brows pulling together in confusion. "Brina? What is he talking about?"

Sabrina opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Patrick moved to stand right beside me, his shoulder brushing mine.

"Well, Sabrina?" Patrick pressed, a dangerous smirk forming on his lips. "Care to explain how you miraculously cured yourself right before stealing the bride's dress?"

Sabrina’s fake tears transformed into a violent, ugly sob. She pointed a trembling finger at Patrick.

"He's lying!" she shrieked, clutching Erick’s lapel. "Erick, tell him to stop! He forged this!"

"I paid a lot of money for that forgery," Patrick said, wiping a speck of dust from his sleeve. "The watermark alone cost a fortune."

Sabrina buried her face in Erick's chest. "He’s always hated you, Erick. He wants to ruin our—your wedding!"

Erick’s face twisted into a mask of pure rage. He dropped the diamond ring onto the floorboards.

He lunged.

His fist collided with Patrick’s jaw. The sharp crack echoed against the mahogany walls.

Guests screamed. My bridesmaids scattered, pressing themselves against the railing.

Patrick stumbled backward, his shoulder hitting the brass handrail. He didn't raise his hands to defend himself. He just stood there, running his tongue over his teeth. A thin line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

"Are you insane?" Erick roared, stepping over the discarded diamond. "You come to my ship and attack my fiancée’s best friend?"

Patrick spat a wad of blood onto the polished floorboards. He didn't even flinch.

"You better figure out who's actually playing you, little brother," Patrick said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Before you lose everything."

Erick raised his fist again. "Get off my ship."

Patrick turned to me, ignoring the threat entirely. "Walk."

I didn't hesitate. I turned my back on the stunned crowd, the crying faker, and the man I almost married.

We moved down the grand staircase, leaving the chaos on the upper deck. The heavy doors shut behind us, cutting off the noise of the wedding guests.

"You let him hit you," I said, keeping my pace brisk.

"It establishes a baseline," Patrick replied, dabbing his lip with a silk handkerchief. "Now he thinks he won. He’ll be too busy comforting his miracle patient to notice what I'm doing."

"Which is what, exactly?" I asked.

Patrick stopped at the bottom of the stairs. The corridor was empty, bathed in the dim glow of the wall sconces. He held out the folder he had given me earlier.

"Flip to the second page."

I opened the thick parchment again. The Mount Sinai logo disappeared, replaced by the letterhead of a wealth management firm.

"What is this?" I asked, scanning the columns of numbers. "A bank statement?"

"Your parents' trust," Patrick said.

I frowned, shoving the folder back toward him. "My parents died in debt. They left me nothing."

"That’s what my father told you," Patrick corrected, stepping closer. He didn't take the folder. "They left a blind trust. Eight figures, Winter. My family has been managing it under the guise of charity since you were ten years old."

My fingers tightened around the paper. The edges crinkled under my grip.

"Look at the clause at the bottom," Patrick instructed.

I dragged my eyes down the page. The legal jargon blurred, but the bold print stood out perfectly clear.

*Upon the beneficiary’s legal marriage to a member of the managing estate, eighty percent of the principal assets shall transfer to the estate's general fund.*

"If you signed that marriage certificate today, my father and Erick would legally absorb your family's money," Patrick said.

The floor seemed to tilt. Ten years of Erick’s gentle smiles. Ten years of his family welcoming the poor orphan girl into their home. They paid for my schooling. They bought my clothes.

All with my own money.

"It was a scam," I whispered.

"A long con," Patrick agreed. "They groomed you to marry Erick so they could drain the accounts."

"And you?" I asked, my voice hardening. "You just decided to be a good Samaritan today?"

"I didn't come back just to crash a wedding," he said. "I came to gut my father’s empire and take back my inheritance. You are the key to breaking his control."

"I don't care about your family drama," I snapped.

"You will," Patrick said. He leaned against the paneled wall. "Because I have the old police files from your parents' car crash. The ones the local cops conveniently sealed."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "You have the files?"

"I do. Marry me, Winter. We burn Erick and my father to the ground, we split the trust, and you get the truth about your family."

Heavy footsteps pounded on the stairs above us.

"Winter!" Erick yelled, his voice cracking with panic.

"Time to go," Patrick murmured. He pushed open the exit door leading to the lower dock.

A sleek black town car sat idling at the end of the pier. Beyond it, a private jet rested on the adjacent tarmac, its engines whining.

I walked down the ramp. The ocean wind whipped my slip dress around my knees.

"Winter, wait!" Erick shouted, sprinting down the gangway.

He caught up to me just as I reached the car. He grabbed my elbow, his fingers digging into my skin.

I yanked my arm away. "Do not touch me."

Erick held his hands up in surrender. He was panting, his tuxedo jacket wrinkled and missing a button.

"You can't just leave," Erick pleaded. "We have three hundred guests up there."

"Tell them the bride realized she was being robbed," I said.

Erick blinked, confusion flashing across his face. "Robbed? What are you talking about?"

"Ask your father," I replied.

"Stop talking in riddles!" Erick yelled, his frustration boiling over. "I’ll make her move out."

I stopped with my hand on the car door handle. "What?"

"Sabrina," he said, his eyes wild. "I’ll buy her a condo in the city. She won't live in the guest house anymore. You'll never have to see her."

"You punched your brother to defend her ten minutes ago."

"He provoked me! He embarrassed her in front of everyone!" Erick stepped closer, lowering his voice. "But I need you, Winter. We belong together. I’ll fix this."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the platinum ring. He held it out, his hand shaking slightly.

"Just come back to the ship," he begged. "Put the ring on. We can forget this ever happened."

I looked at the ring. Then I looked at the man holding it. The man who had planned to steal my future while parading his mistress in my wedding dress.

"Keep her, Erick," I said.

I didn't wait for his reaction. I didn't look back.

I slid into the backseat of the town car. Patrick climbed in beside me and tapped the glass partition.

The car surged forward.

Ten minutes later, I strapped myself into the leather seat of Patrick’s jet.

The engines roared, vibrating through the cabin floor. Patrick sat across from me, pouring two glasses of sparkling water from a crystal decanter.

"No whiskey?" I asked.

"We need clear heads for what comes next," he said, handing me a glass.

"You think he'll follow us?"

"Erick doesn't have the spine to chase a plane," Patrick replied. "My father, on the other hand, will mobilize his lawyers by nightfall."

My phone vibrated in the small clutch purse resting on my lap.

I pulled it out. The screen lit up with a notification from an unknown number.

"Is it him?" Patrick asked, watching my face.

"No," I muttered.

I tapped the message to open it.

The text contained only one sentence.

*Your parents didn't die in an accident.*

I stared at the glowing words. The glass in my hand trembled, water sloshing over the rim and spilling onto my lap.