The front door unlocked with a sharp metallic click. Aiden stepped into the foyer, carrying a glossy white shopping bag from a high-end boutique downtown. He kicked his leather shoes off, leaving them scattered across the entryway rug.

"My mother called me in hysterics," he announced, his voice carrying into the living room. "She claims you shoved her into the furniture."

I stood by the window, watching the city traffic below. I turned to face him. "She tried to slap me. I stopped her hand. If she fell, it was her own lack of balance."

Aiden groaned, dropping his keys onto the console table. He walked into the living room, his posture rigid. "I don't have the energy for this, Mazie. I just spent three hours calming Zaria down after your stunt this morning. She is terrified you hate her. I came here expecting you to be ready to apologize to both of us."

"I am packing," I said, my tone flat. "I am not apologizing to anyone."

Aiden sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if I were a stubborn child. He adopted the magnanimous, patient persona he always used when he wanted to win an argument without raising his voice.

"Listen to me," he started, setting the white bag on the glass coffee table. "We're both stressed. The wedding is in two days. Zaria's health issues have everyone on edge. But I brought you something to smooth things over."

He reached into the bag and pulled out a crimson silk dress. It featured a plunging neckline and a slit up the thigh. It perfectly matched the dark red tie he had worn to his corporate gala last week.

"A peace offering," he said, holding the fabric up by the thin straps. "A matching set. I have the men's suit jacket out in the car. We can wear these to the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night. It will show my parents and the investors that we are a united front."

I stared at the dress. The cut was entirely wrong for my body type, and the sizing tag dangling from the collar read a size zero. I was a size four.

"You bought that for me," I said.

"Of course I did," he replied smoothly. "I saw it in the window and thought of you. It will look stunning, even with your new haircut."

My phone buzzed on the side table. The screen illuminated with a text notification.

The name Zaria flashed across the top.

I picked the device up and tapped the message.

Message read: Aiden bought me that gorgeous red silk piece today to cheer me up, but it was way too loose around my waist. I told him to give it to you instead of throwing it out. Glad it found a home! You always did like my cast-offs.

A dry, hollow laugh escaped my throat. The sheer audacity of the lie was staggering.

I looked from the glowing screen to the dress dangling from Aiden's fingers.

"You thought of me when you saw it," I repeated.

"Yes," he insisted, shaking the garment slightly. "Try it on. We can move past all this drama and focus on the future."

"Did she try it on in the store, or did you bring it to her apartment first?" I asked.

Aiden froze. His confident smile vanished. "What are you talking about?"

I turned the phone screen toward him, holding it up so he could read the bold black text. "Zaria just texted me. She said it was too big for her. You're giving me your pregnant mistress's hand-me-downs and calling it an apology."

The color drained from his face. His eyes darted from the phone to my face. "She is lying. She just wants to stir up trouble because she feels insecure."

"You went through my coat pockets," he suddenly accused, his tone shifting from defensive to aggressive. "You found the ultrasound."

"Eight weeks," I said, stepping away from the window. "You slept with her while I was draining my trust funds to save your bankrupt company."

Aiden tossed the dress onto the sofa. "It meant nothing! It was one night of weakness. She was terrified about her diagnosis, and I was terrified about the firm failing. We made a mistake. We sought comfort."

"A mistake," I echoed, closing the distance between us. "Two months ago, you bought those matching blue cashmere sweaters. You gave the women's fit to Zaria because she gets cold easily. I watched her wear it around my apartment. I stayed quiet then because I thought you were just overly protective of a sick friend."

"I am protective of her!" he shouted, his hands balling into fists.

"You're a coward," I said.

I grabbed the crimson dress off the cushions and hurled it directly at his face. The slick fabric slapped against his cheek, the heavy metal zipper grazing his jaw before the garment slid down to the floorboards.

Aiden slapped a hand against his neck where the zipper had scratched his skin. His eyes widened, completely unhinged by the physical rejection.

"You ungrateful bitch!" he roared. "I am trying to keep this family together! Do you know how humiliating it's to rely on your money? To have everyone in my office whisper that my fiancée bought my success?"

"So you punished me by sleeping with Zaria."

"Zaria actually respects me!" he spat, stepping over the discarded silk. "She needs me. You just use your bank account to castrate me at every turn. You hold your wealth over my head like a weapon."

"My bank account kept you out of federal court," I reminded him, my voice dangerously calm. "I worked eighty-hour weeks to build that portfolio. And my lawyers will be taking every penny back."

Aiden laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the high ceiling. "You think you can just walk away? The wedding invitations went out to five hundred of the most important investors in New York. If you cancel now, you will ruin my reputation. I'll lose the new funding rounds."

"Your reputation is not my problem anymore."

"It's your problem!" He pointed a finger inches from my nose. "You signed the venue contracts. You paid the deposits. You're going to put on a wig, put on a dress, and stand at that altar."

"Get out of my apartment," I said.

"This is my apartment too!"

"My name is on the lease. You've until midnight to pack your things, or I am calling building security to drag you out."

Aiden stared at me. The veins in his neck pulsed against his collar. He realized I was not breaking. I was not crying. The girl who used to bend over backward to massage his ego was gone, sheared away with the locks in the trash.

He spun on his heel and marched toward the foyer.

He yanked the front door open, the hinges whining in protest. He didn't step into the hallway immediately. Instead, he turned his head, his gaze sweeping over my jagged, shaved scalp with pure disgust.

"The wedding proceeds the day after tomorrow," Aiden snarled, his hand gripping the brass doorknob. "You better figure out how to clean up this mess before then."

I dragged my black duffel bag into the center of the living room. Aiden wanted me to clean up the mess. I planned to obliterate it.

I tossed my remaining legal documents inside the canvas bag. Every framed photograph of Aiden and me went into a cardboard box. I taped the flaps shut and shoved it toward the front door.

I walked into the kitchen and emptied the shared bank statements into the shredder. The machine whirred, chewing up the paper trail of our eight-year relationship. I stripped the apartment bare of my existence in under three hours.

My phone vibrated against the granite countertop.

The screen displayed a blocked number.

I swiped to answer. "Speak."

"I have the package, Miss Ray," a gravelly voice stated.

It was the private investigator I hired last week.

"Are you at the location?" I asked.

"Alley behind your building," he replied. "Bring the cash. No checks, no transfers."

"I know how this works," I said.

"Just making sure," he shot back. "People get skittish when they see the dirt I dig up."

"I am not skittish," I replied.

I hung up, grabbed a thick manila envelope from my purse, and walked out the door.

The investigator leaned against the brick wall next to the dumpsters. He wore a faded gray trench coat. The smell of stale cigarette smoke clung to his clothes.

He held out a small, metallic flash drive.

I passed him the envelope.

He thumbed the flap, his eyes scanning the stack of hundred-dollar bills. "Your target isn't the innocent sweetheart she plays."

"Tell me what you found," I demanded.

"I pulled her sealed medical records and court filings from out of state," he explained, pocketing the money. "Zaria Dawson was married four years ago in Nevada."

I crossed my arms. "Aiden told me she never dated anyone seriously because of her health."

"She lied," the investigator countered. "She married a guy named Thomas. Divorced him eight months later after draining his joint savings account."

"Did Thomas fight the divorce?" I asked.

"He tried," the investigator said, leaning closer. "But she threatened to ruin his career with false abuse allegations. He backed off and let her take the money."

"What else?"

"The medical clinic records," he continued. "She had a termination procedure during that marriage. Her ex-husband filed paperwork claiming paternity fraud. He thought the kid was his. It wasn't."

I stared at the metal drive in his hand. "Aiden thinks she is carrying his miracle baby."

"She might be," the investigator shrugged. "But she definitely lied about her pristine past. The files are encrypted. The password is your birth year."

I snatched the drive from his fingers. "Is there any chance she can deny this?"

"The clinic records have her signature and her thumbprint," he said. "The divorce decree has the judge's stamp. It's bulletproof."

"You've everything backed up?" I asked.

"Three secure servers," he confirmed. "Nobody can scrub this from the internet once it goes live."

"Good," I said, turning away.

I returned to the apartment and walked straight into the bedroom.

The white wedding gown hung on the back of the closet door. The seamstress had taken the waist in by a full inch last week.

I unzipped the back and stepped into the layers of tulle and silk.

I stood before the floor-length mirror. The dress hugged my ribs perfectly. Above the sweetheart neckline, my jagged, shaved scalp looked raw. The harsh bathroom lighting highlighted the uneven patches Aiden had left behind.

I reached into the white hatbox on the dresser.

I pulled out the custom lace-front wig I bought online hours ago. The synthetic blonde strands felt heavy. I secured the cap over my stubble, adjusting the hairline until it sat flush against my forehead.

The illusion was flawless.

I looked exactly like the obedient, beautiful bride Aiden expected to see at the altar.

I dragged my fingers through the fake hair. It lacked the warmth of my real hair, the hair I spent eight years growing. It scratched against my scalp, a constant, irritating reminder of the scissors Aiden used in the dark.

I stared at my reflection. My eyes held no warmth.

I unzipped the gown, stepped out of the white fabric, and packed it into a garment bag.

I grabbed the flash drive off the nightstand.

I had a meeting to attend.

Two hours later, I sat in the empty ballroom of the Plaza Hotel. The crystal chandeliers overhead cast long shadows across the vacant dance floor.

Julian, the hired master of ceremonies, tapped his pen against a silver clipboard. He wore a sharp black suit and a stressed expression.

"We have the father-daughter dance scheduled for eight o'clock," Julian noted, flipping a page. "Aiden requested a special spotlight for his groom's toast at seven-thirty. He wants all eyes on him."

"Give him the biggest spotlight you have," I instructed.

"He also asked to add an extra chair at the head table," Julian added, looking up from his notes. "For a Miss Zaria Dawson. He said she requires special accommodations."

"Put her chair right next to his," I replied. "Make sure she has a clear view of the projection screens."

Julian frowned. "The screens? We only use those for the welcome graphic."

I reached into my purse and pulled out the metallic flash drive.

I slid it across the linen tablecloth. It stopped right next to Julian's coffee cup.

"Change the schedule," I said.

Julian picked up the drive, turning it over in his hand. "Is this a romantic montage? I need to prep the audio team."

"Right after Aiden finishes his toast, lower the main lights," I directed. "Project this drive onto the main screens behind the head table."

"What's on it?" Julian asked.

"It's a collection of court documents and medical records," I replied, my voice steady. "They belong to Zaria Dawson."

Julian paused. He set his pen down on the clipboard. "Miss Ray, I don't understand."

"You don't need to understand," I told him. "You just need to plug it into the laptop and hit play."

"I need to know what I am broadcasting to five hundred guests," Julian pushed back, his professional tone slipping. "This is a high-profile event. The mayor is on the guest list."

"I previewed the files," I added, ignoring his panic. "There's no audio. Just high-resolution scans of a marriage certificate, divorce papers, and an abortion record. Make sure the text is large enough for the back row to read."

Julian swallowed hard. He looked from me to the metal drive. "You want to project medical records during the reception?"

"I want them displayed on all four screens simultaneously," I clarified.

"I can't do this," Julian said, pushing the drive back across the table. "I'll lose my vendor license."

I pushed the drive forward again. "I am paying you triple your rate to execute this flawlessly. The funds have already been wired to your offshore account. Check your phone."

Julian took out his phone. He tapped the screen, his eyes widening at the bank notification.

"Don't miss the cue," I warned him.

A bead of sweat formed at Julian's temple. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"Miss Ray," Julian started, his voice dropping to a nervous whisper. "Once this plays at the banquet, both families' reputations will be destroyed."

He stared at the drive, his hand trembling slightly.

"Are you sure you want to press this button?"