Chapter 1
Serena's POV
I found the wedding invitations in his desk drawer — ivory cardstock, gold foil lettering, his name beside my stepsister's. The date? Three weeks from now. The venue? The cathedral he'd promised me since we were eighteen.
My hands didn't shake. That surprised me.
Three years. Three years of being Dominic Ashford's fiancée. Three years of waiting for him to set a date, only to hear "soon" and "not yet" and "you know I love you, just be patient."
Turns out he was patient enough for both of us — patient enough to plan an entire wedding behind my back.
I pulled out my phone and called my father.
"Papa," I said, voice flat and calm. "That arrangement with the Valenti family. Is it still on the table?"
Silence. Then: "Serena, are you sure? You've refused Dante Valenti for two years."
"I'm sure now. Set it up."
I hung up before he could ask why. Then I slid the invitation back into the drawer, exactly where I found it, and walked out of Dominic's office like I'd never been there at all.
Let him think I didn't know. Let him keep pretending.
Because when his wedding day came, I'd be wearing white too — just not for him.
...
I should explain how I ended up here — standing in my fiancé's office, discovering he was marrying my stepsister Vivienne.
It started six months ago.
Vivienne arrived at our family estate with nothing but a suitcase and a sob story. Her mother — my father's second wife — had died, and Vivienne had nowhere else to go.
"Take care of her," Papa told me. "She's family."
So I did. I gave her a room, introduced her to my friends, brought her into my world.
The first time I noticed something was off, Dominic canceled our anniversary dinner. "Emergency at the club," he'd said. But when I drove past his club that night, it was dark. Closed.
I found out later he'd taken Vivienne to see a doctor — some specialist for her "heart condition." She was fragile, he explained. She needed someone to drive her. And since I was busy...
Then came the missed calls. The whispered conversations that stopped the second I walked in. Dominic's best friend, Marcus, started looking at me with pity in his eyes.
I ignored it all. Because I trusted Dominic. Because I loved him.
What a fool I was.
Last week, Vivienne fainted at a dinner party. Dominic caught her before she hit the ground — swept her into his arms like she weighed nothing, carried her out in front of everyone.
I stood there, glass in hand, watching my fiancé cradle another woman.
"He's just being kind," Marcus told me afterward. "Don't read into it."
But I did read into it. I read into every late night, every lie, every time Vivienne looked at me with those wide, innocent eyes and said, "I hope I'm not causing trouble between you two."
And now I had my answer. Fifty invitations. Gold foil. His name. Her name.
Not mine.
...
That night, I sat in my bedroom and made a list.
Things I needed to do before Dominic's wedding:
One — accept Dante Valenti's proposal.
Two — plan my own wedding for the same day.
Three — make sure Dominic had a front-row view.
My phone buzzed. A text from Dominic: "Hey babe. Dinner tomorrow? I have something important to tell you."
I stared at the screen.
So this was it. Tomorrow, he'd finally break things off. Feed me some excuse about "growing apart" or "wanting different things."
I typed back: "Sure. Can't wait."
Then I opened a new message — to a number I'd never used. The one my father gave me two years ago, the one I'd saved under "DO NOT CALL."
Dante Valenti.
I typed three words: "I accept. When?"
The reply came in under ten seconds.
"Tomorrow. I'll come to you."
I found the wedding invitations in his desk drawer — ivory cardstock, gold foil lettering, his name beside my stepsister's. The date? Three weeks from now. The venue? The cathedral he'd promised me since we were eighteen.
My hands didn't shake. That surprised me.
Three years. Three years of being Dominic Ashford's fiancée. Three years of waiting for him to set a date, only to hear "soon" and "not yet" and "you know I love you, just be patient."
Turns out he was patient enough for both of us — patient enough to plan an entire wedding behind my back.
I pulled out my phone and called my father.
"Papa," I said, voice flat and calm. "That arrangement with the Valenti family. Is it still on the table?"
Silence. Then: "Serena, are you sure? You've refused Dante Valenti for two years."
"I'm sure now. Set it up."
I hung up before he could ask why. Then I slid the invitation back into the drawer, exactly where I found it, and walked out of Dominic's office like I'd never been there at all.
Let him think I didn't know. Let him keep pretending.
Because when his wedding day came, I'd be wearing white too — just not for him.
...
I should explain how I ended up here — standing in my fiancé's office, discovering he was marrying my stepsister Vivienne.
It started six months ago.
Vivienne arrived at our family estate with nothing but a suitcase and a sob story. Her mother — my father's second wife — had died, and Vivienne had nowhere else to go.
"Take care of her," Papa told me. "She's family."
So I did. I gave her a room, introduced her to my friends, brought her into my world.
The first time I noticed something was off, Dominic canceled our anniversary dinner. "Emergency at the club," he'd said. But when I drove past his club that night, it was dark. Closed.
I found out later he'd taken Vivienne to see a doctor — some specialist for her "heart condition." She was fragile, he explained. She needed someone to drive her. And since I was busy...
Then came the missed calls. The whispered conversations that stopped the second I walked in. Dominic's best friend, Marcus, started looking at me with pity in his eyes.
I ignored it all. Because I trusted Dominic. Because I loved him.
What a fool I was.
Last week, Vivienne fainted at a dinner party. Dominic caught her before she hit the ground — swept her into his arms like she weighed nothing, carried her out in front of everyone.
I stood there, glass in hand, watching my fiancé cradle another woman.
"He's just being kind," Marcus told me afterward. "Don't read into it."
But I did read into it. I read into every late night, every lie, every time Vivienne looked at me with those wide, innocent eyes and said, "I hope I'm not causing trouble between you two."
And now I had my answer. Fifty invitations. Gold foil. His name. Her name.
Not mine.
...
That night, I sat in my bedroom and made a list.
Things I needed to do before Dominic's wedding:
One — accept Dante Valenti's proposal.
Two — plan my own wedding for the same day.
Three — make sure Dominic had a front-row view.
My phone buzzed. A text from Dominic: "Hey babe. Dinner tomorrow? I have something important to tell you."
I stared at the screen.
So this was it. Tomorrow, he'd finally break things off. Feed me some excuse about "growing apart" or "wanting different things."
I typed back: "Sure. Can't wait."
Then I opened a new message — to a number I'd never used. The one my father gave me two years ago, the one I'd saved under "DO NOT CALL."
Dante Valenti.
I typed three words: "I accept. When?"
The reply came in under ten seconds.
"Tomorrow. I'll come to you."