I stared at the shredded pile of white silk on the floor.

My custom Vera Wang gown. The one I’d waited five years to wear. Now it was nothing but jagged ribbons and scattered pearls.

"Pick up the damn phone," I muttered.

I pressed the device to my ear, listening to the endless ringing.

"This is Chloe. Leave a message."

The stylist’s voicemail beeped.

I ended the call and dialed the driver.

"The number you have reached is out of service."

A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. I kicked a torn piece of tulle away from my bare foot.

Time was running out. John was waiting.

New York’s most elusive billionaire was finally making our five-year secret relationship public today. The media was already swarming the cathedral.

I scrolled through my contacts and hit the name of John’s head of security, Marcus.

"Marcus, it’s Elowen," I said the second the line connected.

"Miss? Where are you? Mr. Crawford is getting anxious."

"Everything is gone," I told him, pacing the length of my bedroom. "My dress is destroyed. No one showed up. Send a car for me right now."

Silence hung on the line.

"Marcus?"

"I'm sorry, Miss," Marcus replied. His voice sounded oddly strained. "All vehicles are currently occupied by the VIP guests. You’ll have to find your own way."

The line went dead.

I stared at the screen. Marcus never hung up on me.

Panic flared in my chest.

I threw on the clothes I’d worn yesterday—a faded gray sweater and plain denim jeans.

No time for makeup. No time to fix the tangled mess of my hair.

I ran out the door.

The cab ride felt like an eternity. Traffic was gridlocked around Columbus Circle.

"Keep the change," I said. I shoved a crumpled twenty-dollar bill at the driver.

I sprinted up the marble steps of the cathedral.

Cameras flashed blindingly from the barricades.

"Who is that?" a reporter shouted. He thrust a microphone toward my face.

"Is she a protestor?" another yelled.

I ignored them. I shoved past the heavy-set security guards flanking the entrance.

"Hey! You can't go in there!" one guard barked. He grabbed my arm.

I ripped my arm out of his grip.

"I am the bride," I snapped.

The guard blinked. His eyes darted from my messy bun to my scuffed sneakers. He laughed.

"Sure you are, lady. And I'm the Pope."

"Check your earpiece," I demanded. "Tell Marcus that Elowen is here. Now."

He pressed a finger to his ear. His smirk faded into a frown. He stepped aside.

I reached the heavy oak doors of the grand hall.

My hands trembled against the polished wood.

I pushed them open.

The massive hinges groaned loudly.

A sea of tuxedos and designer gowns turned toward the entrance.

The string quartet stopped playing mid-note.

Silence slammed into the room.

I stood at the top of the aisle. The gray sweater clung awkwardly to my frame. My sneakers squeaked against the pristine marble floor as I took a single step forward.

Whispers erupted like a swarm of hornets.

"Is that a joke?" a woman in the front row hissed to her companion.

"Look at her hair. Did she sleep in a dumpster?" a man chuckled.

I kept my eyes locked straight ahead.

John stood at the altar.

His tailored black tuxedo fit him flawlessly. His dark hair was perfectly swept back.

But it was his face that made my chest tighten.

A sharp flash of displeasure crossed his features. His jaw locked tight.

He didn't step forward to meet me.

"John," I said. My voice barely carried over the murmurs.

I walked down the long, white runner. Hundreds of judgmental eyes tracked my every movement.

A tall, imposing figure stepped into the center aisle, blocking my path.

Arthur Crawford. John’s father.

His silver hair gleamed under the chandeliers. His eyes were pure ice.

"What is the meaning of this?" Arthur barked.

He looked me up and down. His upper lip curled in disgust.

"Mr. Crawford, I can explain," I started.

"Explain?" Arthur interrupted. His voice boomed across the silent hall. "You show up to the wedding of the century looking like a street beggar. You humiliate my son. You humiliate this family."

"Arthur, please," I tried again.

"Do not address me by my first name today," he snapped. "The media is outside. The governor is sitting in the third row. And John's bride arrives in denim?"

He turned his glare toward the altar.

"Is this the woman you fought me to marry, John?" Arthur demanded. "A girl who can't even dress herself for her own wedding?"

"Father, enough," John said.

His tone was flat. Unreadable.

Arthur didn't back down. "No. I warned you about her background. I warned you she lacked the grace for our circle."

I curled my hands into fists. My nails dug into my palms.

"Where is your dress, Elowen?" Arthur demanded. He turned back to me. "Where is the dignity you promised to bring to the Crawford name?"

I looked past Arthur, straight into John's eyes.

"Someone set me up," I said.

The whispers in the room spiked in volume.

John’s eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"The dress was shredded," I said. I projected my voice so the front rows could hear. "The stylist never arrived. The driver vanished. My phone calls were blocked."

Arthur scoffed loudly. "A convenient excuse for sheer incompetence."

"It’s the truth," I shot back. "Someone made sure I wouldn't make it here today. But I came anyway, because I wouldn't leave John standing at the altar."

I looked at John again. I needed him to defend me.

He finally stepped down from the dais.

He closed the distance between us. His gaze swept over my messy clothes.

"You expect me to believe a ghost sabotaged our wedding?" John asked.

The coldness in his question felt like a physical blow.

"You think I would do this to myself?" I asked.

"I think," John replied. His tone dropped to a low murmur only I could hear. "That you made a spectacle of us."

"John, my dress was cut into pieces. Someone broke into my suite."

"Did you call the police?" he asked smoothly.

"No, I rushed here to tell you—"

"So you have no proof."

I stared at him. The man I had loved in secret for five years felt like a stranger.

"You don't believe me," I whispered.

"I believe what I see," John stated. He gestured to my clothes. "And I see a woman who didn't take today seriously."

"I fought my way through security just to get to you!" I argued. "I didn't care how I looked. I only cared about you."

"Then you should have cared enough to protect the gown," Arthur chimed in from the side. "That dress cost more than your life."

"Stay out of this," I told Arthur.

"Do not speak to my father that way," John warned. His voice grew sharper.

I took a step back. The marble floor felt freezing through the thin soles of my shoes.

"Five years, John," I said. "Five years of hiding in the shadows. Five years of secret dinners and private jets so the press wouldn't find out about us. Today was supposed to be the day we stopped hiding."

"And you ruined it," John replied.

"I didn't ruin it!" I shouted. The words echoed off the high vaulted ceilings.

Silence descended on the room once again.

John's expression hardened into a mask of pure stone.

"Lower your voice, Elowen," he ordered.

"Are you embarrassed by me?" I asked.

He didn't answer right away. His silence was louder than any insult.

"Answer me, John."

"Look at yourself," he finally said. "You look completely unhinged."

"Because someone destroyed my wedding!"

"Because you couldn't handle the pressure," John countered.

"No. Someone in your inner circle did this. Someone who knew the schedule. Someone who knew the security codes to my suite."

"Are you accusing my staff?" John asked.

"I'm stating a fact."

Before John could answer, a woman’s voice rang out from the back of the hall.

"She's lying!"

The crowd parted.

A woman in a stunning crimson gown walked down the aisle. She held up a clear plastic bag. Inside it were the silver shears from my vanity set.

"I found these in her hotel room," the woman announced. A triumphant smile played on her lips. "Along with the shredded dress."

I recognized her instantly.

Victoria. John's childhood friend. The woman Arthur had always wanted him to marry.

"What were you doing in my room?" I demanded.

Victoria ignored me and handed the bag to John.

"Her fingerprints are all over the handles, John," Victoria said sweetly. "She destroyed the dress herself. She wanted the attention."

The final lingering note of the string quartet died away.

*Crash.*

A champagne flute shattered against the marble floor. Shards of crystal sprayed across the white runner, stopping inches from my sneakers.

I flinched.

John stood over the broken glass, his chest heaving.

"John, please," I begged, taking a step toward the altar. "Let me explain."

Before I could reach him, a familiar figure stepped out from the cluster of bridesmaids.

Eira.

Relief washed through my panicked chest. My best friend. My maid of honor. She wore the pale pink gown we had picked out together.

I reached my hand out to her. "Eira, tell them. Tell John about the stylist—"

Eira didn't look at me. She walked right past my outstretched hand and stopped beside John. She placed a gentle, manicured hand on his tuxedo sleeve.

"John, try to calm down," Eira murmured. Her voice carried perfectly through the silent cathedral. "Please forgive her."

I froze. "Forgive me?"

Eira turned her pitying gaze toward me. "We both know how you are, Elowen. You’ve always been so... careless."

"What are you talking about?" I demanded.

"I told you to take this seriously," Eira said, shaking her head. She looked back at John. "I’m so sorry, John. You know her lazy streak. She probably slept in and panicked. She never handles responsibility well."

My jaw unhinged. A short, sharp laugh punched its way out of my throat. It was the only reaction my brain could muster.

"Lazy?" I echoed. "Eira, I was trapped in my room!"

John’s lip curled. He shoved Eira’s hand off his arm, though his glare remained pinned on me.

"Even your best friend knows you're lying," John spat.

"She wasn't even at the hotel this morning!" I shouted.

"Because I was here, making sure everything was perfect for you," Eira countered smoothly. "Someone had to."

John took a step down the altar stairs. The sheer contempt in his eyes made my blood run cold.

"You couldn't even put on a decent outfit," John said. "You dragged my name through the mud in front of the entire city."

"I was sabotaged!"

"By who? Ghosts?" John mocked. "You cut up your own dress because you realized you don't belong here. You wanted an out."

"I wanted to marry you!" I yelled.

The crowd murmured in a low, vicious buzz.

Eira sighed, a delicate, tragic sound. She signaled a passing waiter and plucked a fresh glass of champagne from his silver tray. She offered it to John.

"Here," Eira said softly. "Drink this. Don't let her ruin your day completely."

John took the stem of the glass.

"She didn't mean to humiliate you on purpose," Eira continued, her tone heavy with fake sympathy. "She just doesn't understand the pressure of your world. She's just a regular girl who got in over her head."

Fire roared in my ears. "Shut up, Eira! Why are you doing this?"

"I'm trying to help you, Elowen," she said.

"You're lying to him!" I stepped closer to John. "Look at me. Look in my eyes. Have I ever lied to you in five years?"

John stared at me. His knuckles turned white around the champagne glass.

"You're right," John said softly.

Hope flared in my chest. "Thank you."

"You never lied," he continued, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "You just hid who you really are. A pathetic, attention-seeking child."

He raised his arm.

A sudden chill shocked my scalp.

The pale golden liquid splashed directly into my face. It ran down my forehead, stinging my eyes, and soaked into the collar of my faded gray sweater.

I gasped, sputtering as the alcohol burned my nose.

"John!" I choked out.

He tossed the empty crystal glass onto the floor. It didn't break this time. It just rolled away, clinking against the marble.

"Get out of my sight," John ordered.

I wiped the stinging liquid from my eyes, stumbling backward. My wet sneakers found a slick patch of spilled champagne.

My feet flew out from under me.

I hit the floor hard. Pain shot up my tailbone and radiated through my spine.

Laughter erupted from the pews.

"Look at her," someone sneered.

"Trash always reveals itself," another voice whispered.

I sat on the cold stone, shivering. The sweet, sticky smell of alcohol clung to my skin and clothes.

I blinked through the stinging in my eyes and looked at the faces staring down at me.

Arthur Crawford sneered. Victoria smirked, still holding the plastic bag with my shears. Eira stood next to John, looking like the perfect, concerned friend.

Then, I looked past them. I scanned the front rows on the left side of the aisle. The bride's side.

Row one. Empty.

Row two. Empty.

Row three. A few distant cousins I barely knew, whispering behind their programs.

My stomach plummeted.

Where was my mother?

Where was my younger brother, Leo?

I scrambled to my knees, gripping the edge of a mahogany pew to pull myself up.

"Where is my family?" I asked. My voice cracked.

John didn't answer. He turned his back to me.

"John! Where are they?" I screamed. "They were supposed to be in the VIP cars with you!"

"They never showed up," Arthur Crawford answered from the side. The older man adjusted his silver tie. "Like daughter, like family. Completely unreliable."

"No," I shook my head frantically. "My mother wouldn't miss this. Leo wouldn't miss this. Something is wrong."

I grabbed John’s tuxedo jacket, yanking him back around to face me.

"Call Marcus!" I demanded. "Find out where the cars went!"

John slapped my hand away. The force of his strike sent a sharp sting across my knuckles.

"Don't touch me," he snarled.

"My dress was destroyed!" I shrieked, the raw sound tearing my throat. "My room was broken into! My family is missing! Someone is doing this to me!"

"Enough!" John roared. His voice shook the stained-glass windows.

The entire cathedral fell dead silent again.

"I am done listening to your excuses," John said. His eyes were flat, dead, devoid of the man I had loved. "The wedding is off."

He looked at the security guards rushing down the aisle.

"Throw her out," John commanded.

Two massive guards grabbed my arms, hauling me off my feet.

"No! Let me go!" I thrashed against their grip.

They dragged me backward down the long white runner. My sneakers squeaked against the marble.

"John, please!" I screamed over my shoulder.

He didn't look back. He offered his arm to Eira, and she took it with a triumphant smile.

The heavy oak doors loomed behind me. The guards shoved me through them, out into the blinding flashes of the paparazzi.

I stumbled down the stone steps, shielding my face.

Then, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

I pulled it out with trembling, champagne-sticky fingers.

An unknown number. A text message.

I opened it.

It was a photo of my mother and Leo, tied to chairs in a dark, concrete room.

Below the image was a single line of text.

*Run, Elowen.*

The glowing screen of my phone blurred. *Run, Elowen.*

Heavy footsteps crunched on the stone steps behind me.

"Wait!" Eira’s voice rang out over the flashing cameras.

I shoved the phone into my jeans pocket. I spun around.

John stood at the top of the cathedral stairs. His broad shoulders blocked the sunlight. Eira clung to his elbow.

"John, please," Eira murmured, her tone heavy with fake sweetness. "What if she’s telling the truth?"

John scoffed. "Look at her, Eira. She’s out of her mind."

"Just humor her," Eira pressed. She stroked his tuxedo sleeve. "Let’s go to her dressing room. If the gown is really destroyed, we’ll know someone set her up."

I needed John’s security team. I needed Marcus to track my family.

"Yes," I blurted out. "Come to the hotel. I’ll show you the shredded silk. I’ll show you the cut ribbons. Then you have to help me find my mother."

John’s jaw clenched. A muscle ticked near his temple.

"Fine," John snapped. "We will go to the suite. And when I find out you are lying, I will ruin you."

The drive back to the Plaza Hotel passed in suffocating silence. John refused to look at me. He kept his gaze pinned to the tinted window of the SUV. Eira sat perfectly straight, a tiny, triumphant smile playing on her glossy lips.

My hands shook in my lap. I just needed him to see the destroyed Vera Wang gown. Then he would understand the sabotage. Then he would mobilize his men.

The elevator dinged at the penthouse level.

I marched down the carpeted hallway. My sneakers made no sound.

"Open it," John ordered, gesturing to the heavy double doors of my suite.

I grabbed the brass handle. I pushed the doors wide open.

"Look at what they did to me, John," I said, stepping inside. "Look at the—"

The words died in my throat.

I froze.

There, standing in the center of the plush suite, was the mannequin.

Draped over its fiberglass curves was my Vera Wang gown.

Pristine. Flawless.

Not a single tear marred the white silk bodice. The tulle skirt puffed out in perfect, untouched layers. The pearls I had kicked across the floor hours ago were meticulously sewn back into the lace hem.

"No," I whispered.

I stumbled forward. I grabbed the fabric, expecting it to fall apart in my hands. It held firm.

The jagged ribbons were gone. The shredded scraps had vanished. The room smelled faintly of lavender room spray, totally undisturbed.

"This isn't right," I stammered, spinning around. "It was in pieces. The entire skirt was slashed to ribbons."

John stepped into the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

His dark eyes dragged over the perfect dress, then snapped to my face. The temperature in the room plummeted.

"A shredded dress," John repeated. His voice was dangerously low.

"Someone swapped it!" I yelled, waving a hand toward the mannequin. "Or they brought a replica! I swear to you, John, the dress I saw this morning was destroyed."

*Smack.*

The sharp crack echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

My head snapped to the side. A blinding sting erupted across my left cheek. I stumbled back, my hip slamming into the edge of a glass vanity table.

I pressed a trembling hand to my face. The skin burned.

John lowered his hand. His chest rose and fell in rapid, furious jerks.

"You lying bitch," John spat.

"John!" Eira gasped. She rushed forward, grabbing his arm again. "Don't hurt her!"

I stared at him, my vision swimming with unshed tears. In five years, he had never raised a voice to me, let alone a hand.

"You hit me," I whispered.

"You dragged my family into a circus," John snarled. He stepped closer, crowding my space. "You made me stand at the altar like a fool. You claimed you were sabotaged."

"I was!" I screamed, pushing off the vanity. "Look at the room! It’s too clean! The scissors Victoria found had my fingerprints because they were my scissors, but I didn't cut anything!"

Eira shook her head. Her blonde hair shifted over her shoulders.

"Elowen, why are you doing this?" Eira asked. Her voice trembled with practiced sorrow. "Why lie about something so easily disproven? The dress is right here."

"You set this up," I accused, pointing a shaking finger at her. "You fixed the room while I was at the church."

"I was at the cathedral the entire morning!" Eira cried, shrinking behind John’s broad frame. "John, tell her. I was with your mother arranging the floral displays."

"Leave Eira out of your psychotic delusions," John commanded.

"She is playing you!" I stepped toward him, desperate to break through his icy exterior. "John, think about it. Why would I show up in jeans if I had a perfect dress sitting right here?"

"Because you are terrified of commitment," John replied coldly. "Because you realized you don't have the class to be a Crawford, and you wanted to play the victim to get out of it."

A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips.

"Class?" I asked. "You think I destroyed my own wedding over class?"

"I think you are sick in the head," John stated.

I dropped my hand from my stinging cheek. The panic from the text message flared back to life, mixing with boiling anger.

"Fine. You don't believe me about the dress?" I challenged. "What about the staff?"

John crossed his arms. "What staff?"

"The stylist. The wardrobe assistants. The driver you hired for me," I listed off rapidly. "None of them showed up this morning. They all vanished."

Eira sighed, a delicate, annoying sound. "Elowen, maybe they just got the schedule wrong."

"All of them?" I snapped. "At the exact same time?"

I turned my focus entirely on John.

"Call them," I demanded.

John raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Call the stylist. Call the driver," I repeated, stepping right into his personal space. "Bring them here right now. Ask them why their phones were disconnected. Ask them who told them to stay away from my suite."

John stared down at me. The absolute disgust in his expression didn't waver.

"You want me to waste more time indulging your lies?" he asked.

"If I am lying, bring them here and let them expose me," I challenged. "Let them look me in the eye and say I told them to leave."

Eira shifted uncomfortably. Her manicured fingers dug slightly into John’s jacket.

"John, maybe we should just go," Eira suggested softly. "She’s clearly unwell. We shouldn't drag the staff into her breakdown."

I caught the tiny flicker of panic in Eira's eyes.

"Bring them," I insisted, locking eyes with John. "Unless you're afraid of what they might actually say."

John pulled his phone from his tuxedo pocket.

"Marcus," John barked into the receiver. "Track down the bridal stylist and the assigned driver. Bring them to the penthouse immediately."

He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the velvet sofa.

"They will be here in five minutes," John said. "And when they confirm you are lying, I will make sure you never work in this city again."

I stood tall, ignoring the throbbing pain in my cheek.

"We'll see," I replied.

A heavy knock hammered against the suite door.

John walked over and yanked it open.

Marcus stood in the hallway. The head of security looked pale.

"Sir," Marcus said, his voice unusually tight. "We have a problem."

"Where is the staff?" John demanded.

Marcus swallowed hard. He glanced past John, his eyes landing directly on me.

"They aren't coming, Mr. Crawford."

"Why not?" John snapped.

"Because," Marcus replied grimly. "The police just found the driver's car at the bottom of the East River."