“Dad, don’t work yourself up,” I said, wiping sweat from my brow. “I’ve got my way of handling them. But first, we need to deal with the snakes already inside our walls.”

One week before the wedding, I went to the cemetery alone.

The sky hung low, an overcast sheet of gray, and the air was thick with stillness. I knelt in front of my mother’s tombstone, fingers gently sweeping away the dust settled over her name.

“Mom,” I whispered, “I'm not making the same mistakes this time.”

Right then, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I glanced at the screen. It was a bank notification.

[$50,000,000 withdrawn.]

The breath caught in my throat.

I immediately dialed my assistant.

“Ms. Mercier,” she answered, voice shaking, “someone forged your signature. They cleaned out the account. Every cent is gone.”

...

Twenty minutes later, I stormed into Gwen’s freshly opened studio. The door slammed behind me, and the room went still.

“Desmond, you asshole!”

The name cracked out of me like a gunshot. Everyone froze.

“Who gave you the right to touch my trust fund?”

Desmond turned toward me, slow and smug, like he’d been waiting for the moment.

“Cassandra,” he said coolly, “you’ve bullied Gwen repeatedly. That money? Consider it your apology.”

Then he raised his voice, projecting it for everyone in the room. “We’re getting married anyway. It’ll all be joint property. Don’t be so petty.”

My pulse pounded in my ears. Black spots clouded my vision.

And then I saw a necklace, gleaming against Gwen’s collarbone.

It was my mother’s pearl necklace.

The one I’d locked away in a safety deposit box.

I pointed at her. “Take that necklace off!”

Gwen blinked fast and stepped behind Desmond, her lip quivering.

He frowned, clearly irritated. “It’s just an old necklace, Cassandra.”

“I said, take it off!” I lunged forward and grabbed at it.

The strand snapped, pearls flying across the hardwood floor like shattered promises.

Before I knew it, my hand lashed out.

I slapped Gwen hard across the face.

She shrieked and stumbled back, clutching her cheek like I’d branded her.

Desmond shoved me.

“Are you insane?!” he roared.

I slowly straightened, stared him dead in the eye, and didn’t so much as flinch.

He faltered, just slightly, taking half a step back.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he muttered, “I-It’s just a damn necklace… no reason to blow this up.”

I dropped to my knees and started gathering the pearls, shaking my hands. Each one was dull with dust and no longer shining.

Just like the love I’d once believed in—crushed under his heel repeatedly.

...

Back in the car, I sat gripping the velvet pouch so tightly that the veins in my hands stood out. My whole body burned.

Then, I opened my phone.

And there it was, blazing across social media.

[#HeiressPubliclyStripped]

Front and center.

Photos of me: coat gone, hair a mess, humiliated. Gwen wrapped in my jacket, leaning into Desmond’s chest like some tragic love story.

The caption read:

[What’s stolen will never truly belong to you.]

I stared at the screen for a second. Then turned it off.

That line?

I gave it right back to her in my head, ice cold. 'What’s stolen will never truly be yours, Gwen. You've done enough in my past. Not this time.'

The backlash hit fast and brutal. Comments flooded in like knives.

[Mercier heiress really is a joke. Her fiancé straightened her out.]

[Look at that pathetic expression. Geez, no wonder she gets stepped on.]

When I called my assistant, my voice was eerily calm. “Scrub everything. Every post. Every photo. I don’t care how.”

Then, I added, “And I want that money back—every dollar. I don’t care how we do it or who we have to pressure. If the bank delays, get the legal team involved. And if anyone tries to stop us…”

I let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

“Let them learn what happens when they mess with the Merciers.”

...

The morning of the wedding, my phone rang.

Desmond.

His voice slid through the receiver, smug and relaxed like nothing had happened.

“Cassie,” he said, like we were old friends. “About the necklace… You really scared Gwen. She’s pregnant. She can’t handle that kind of stress.”

I stood in front of the mirror, lipstick in hand. I dragged the crimson across my lips slowly, deliberately.

In the reflection, my expression didn’t waver.

Cold. Composed. Lethal.

“So that’s why you leaked the photos?” I said lightly. “To calm her nerves?”

Desmond scoffed. “Don’t forget that your dad’s mining project still depends on my family’s contacts. Without me, who’s going to help you?”

I carefully set the lipstick down, letting my fingertips tap a soft rhythm along the edge of the vanity.

On the other end of the line, Desmond spoke like he was offering me a favor, not a threat.

“How about this?” he said. “Transfer fifty percent of your shares to Gwen as a gift for the baby.”

He chuckled, smug and casual. “Anyway, once we’re married, what’s mine is yours too.”

In the background, Gwen’s voice chimed in, sugar-coated and delicate. “Desmond…”

Instantly, his tone melted like butter. “Don’t move, sweetheart. Be careful with your belly.”

Then, like flipping a switch, he was back to business, continuing, “As long as you agree, I’ll be at the wedding on time today.”

I didn’t give him a single word.

I ended the call, blocked his number, and didn’t look back.

...

When Terrence entered the hall, it was like someone had dropped a glass at a funeral. All conversation stopped, replaced by a low wave of shocked murmurs.

He was in his wheelchair, dressed in tailored black and still wearing that signature silver mask. But when his eyes met mine, they softened. They were warm and steady.

And then—boom. The doors slammed open.

Desmond barged in like the lead actor showing up late to a play, wearing a spotless white suit and flashing that same arrogant grin—until his eyes landed on Terrence beside me.

That smug expression collapsed like a house of cards.

“Cassie,” he said, his voice shaking. “What the hell is going on?”

His eyes narrowed in on Terrence, like he couldn’t believe what he saw. “Terrence?! What are you doing here?!”

The whole room had gone quiet. Of course it had.

Terrence D’Angelo didn’t go to events like this. Not ever.

I stepped forward and placed myself squarely between them.

Desmond’s face darkened, jaw tight. “Cassandra, it’s our wedding day. And you brought him here? What kind of twisted game are you playing?”

Right on cue, Gwen stepped out like she’d been waiting in the wings, one hand resting daintily on her barely-there baby bump.

“Cassie,” she said sweetly, “even if Desmond’s been spending more time with me lately, did you really need to drag a cripple here just to get back at him?”

I took a slow breath, trying not to let my temper spike. “Desmond—”

“Enough!” he snapped, grabbing my wrist like he had any right. “Starting today, I’m your husband. And this is how you behave?!”

I ripped my hand free, eyes locked on his.

Then came the emcee’s voice, booming through the speaker system:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the wedding ceremony of Miss Cassandra Mercier and Mr. Terrence D’Angelo.”