I sat on my bed, phone clutched in my trembling hand, staring at Victoria Spencer's name on the screen. Three days had passed since the wasp attack, and my face still bore the angry red welts as reminders. The doctors had assured me I was lucky—a few more stings could have killed me.

"I can't do this anymore," I whispered to myself, pressing the call button.

The phone rang twice before Victoria's elegant voice answered. "Ella, darling, how are you feeling?"

"Victoria," I began, my voice steadier than I expected. "I need to talk to you about Reed. About us. I think we need to call off the engagement."

There was a pause, then a rustling sound. "Ella, please don't make any hasty decisions. You've been through a traumatic experience—"

"It's not just the wasps," I interrupted. "It's everything. Aniyah's involvement, Reed leaving me when I could have died—"

The phone suddenly went silent, then Reed's voice came through. "Mom, I'll handle this."

My stomach dropped. "Reed? You're there?"

"Ella," he said, his tone shifting to that smooth, persuasive one I'd heard countless times before. "Please don't do this. I swear on my grandfather's grave, I will completely cut ties with Aniyah."

I could almost see him adjusting his watch as he spoke—the nervous tell he never realized he had.

"Reed, she tried to kill me," I said, tears threatening to spill over.

"No one tried to kill you," he countered, his voice hardening slightly. "It was a prank that went too far. And yes, Aniyah was there, but she got hurt too, remember?"

I heard muffled voices in the background, then Victoria came back on the line. "Ella, dear, why don't we all meet tomorrow? Marcus and I want to help resolve this situation."

Before I could respond, Reed's voice was back, urgent and pleading. "Ella, please. I love you. Only you. Aniyah means nothing to me."

I closed my eyes, twisting my father's locket between my fingers. "Fine," I conceded. "We'll meet."

---

Two weeks before our wedding, I was arranging flowers for the rehearsal dinner when my phone buzzed with a text from Teagan.

"You okay?" she asked. "You've been quiet."

I typed back: "Just stressed about the wedding."

It wasn't entirely a lie. The wedding was approaching fast, but what really had me on edge was Reed's behavior.

Last night, I'd woken to find him missing from our bed. I found him in the living room, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in hushed tones. When I asked who it was, he claimed it was a client emergency.

Then there was the laptop incident. I'd walked into his home office to surprise him with lunch, only to find him quickly slamming the screen shut when I entered.

"What are you hiding?" I'd asked.

"Nothing," he'd snapped. "Just wedding plans. You know how I am about surprises."

But the look in his eyes—that flicker of panic—told me otherwise.

When I confronted him about it later, he sighed dramatically. "Ella, you're being paranoid. The stress of the wedding is making you act crazy."

"Crazy?" I repeated.

"Yes, crazy," he insisted, taking my hands in his. "You're imagining things that aren't there. It's not healthy."

I pulled away, suddenly unsure of what I'd seen. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was overreacting.

---

The first package arrived on a Tuesday morning.

I was sorting through wedding invitations when the delivery man handed me a small, plain box with no return address.

Inside was a single rose—wilted and dead—from a bouquet Reed had given me on our first anniversary.

My hands shook as I lifted it, petals crumbling between my fingers.

The second package came three days later.

This time, it contained Polaroid photos—intimate shots of Reed and Aniyah from their relationship years ago. Her head on his chest. His lips on her neck. Both of them smiling at the camera.

A note accompanied them in elegant handwriting: "He'll never love you the way he loves me."

I threw them across the room, watching as they scattered like fallen leaves.

The third package arrived the following week.

It was a USB drive in a small velvet box—the kind Reed's jewelry company used for their higher-end pieces.

With trembling fingers, I plugged it into my laptop.

The screen flickered to life, revealing video after video of Reed and Aniyah together. Some were old, but others...

I froze as I recognized the hotel room from our anniversary trip last month.

The timestamp in the corner showed it was filmed just two weeks ago.

As the video played, a note slipped from the box onto my keyboard:

"Enjoy the scraps while you can."

I sat motionless, staring at the screen as my world collapsed around me.

I spread the evidence across our kitchen table—the dead rose, the Polaroids, the USB drive. Each item was a piece of my crumbling reality, laid out like exhibits in a trial.

"Reed, look at this," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "This isn't just jealousy. This is harassment."

Reed glanced at the items, his expression shifting from annoyance to dismissiveness. He adjusted his watch—once, twice, three times.

"Ella, you're overreacting again," he said, not meeting my eyes. "Aniyah is just jealous and harmless. She's always been dramatic."

"Jealous and harmless?" I pushed the USB drive toward him. "She sent me videos of you two together. From our anniversary hotel room."

He didn't even look at it. "Those are old. Probably manipulated."

"Then explain this," I said, showing him the note that came with the photos. "'He'll never love you the way he loves me.' How is that harmless?"

Reed sighed dramatically, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I'll talk to her. I promise. She's just going through a tough time right now."

"When will you talk to her?" I demanded. "You've been saying that for months."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you monitoring my calls now? Jesus, Ella, you need to rise above this. It's beneath you."

I stared at him, incredulous. "Rise above it? She's terrorizing me, and you're irritated with me?"

"I'm irritated that you won't trust me," he countered, his voice hardening. "I've told you a hundred times—Aniyah means nothing to me."

But his actions spoke louder than his words.

---

The bridal shop was a vision in white—reams of tulle and satin draped from racks, crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light across the showroom floor.

"Turn around," the seamstress instructed as she pinned the hem of my wedding gown. "Perfect. You look absolutely stunning, Ms. Ryan."

I smiled tentatively at my reflection. The dress was everything I'd dreamed of—ivory lace over silk, fitted at the waist before flaring out in a modest train. In two weeks, I would walk down the aisle in this dress toward Reed.

If I still had a future with him by then.

My phone buzzed in my purse. I reached for it, expecting a message from the florist.

Instead, an unknown number flashed on the screen.

I opened the message, and my heart stopped.

Photos. Intimate photos of Reed and Aniyah together. His head buried in her neck. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Both of them smiling at the camera.

But it wasn't the intimacy that made my blood run cold—it was Reed's haircut. The same short, styled cut he'd gotten just last week.

"He came to me last night," read the text beneath the photos. "He always comes back to me."

The seamstress noticed my face drain of color. "Ms. Ryan? Are you alright?"

I couldn't speak. My fingers trembled as I saved the photos and forwarded them to myself as evidence.

When Reed arrived to pick me up, I didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"Explain these," I said, thrusting my phone at him.

He glanced at the screen, his face paling momentarily before his expression hardened. "My phone was hacked. These are old photos."

"They're not old," I insisted. "Your haircut—you just got it last week."

"Ella," he said, his voice taking on that patronizing tone I'd grown to hate. "These are manipulated images. Someone's trying to hurt us before our wedding."

"Us?" I repeated. "Or just me?"

---

"Something's not right," Teagan said, sliding into the booth across from me at our favorite café. "I've been looking into Reed's finances."

I looked up from my untouched coffee. "What do you mean?"

Teagan pulled out her tablet and swiped through several documents. "Company credit card statements. He's been buying expensive jewelry, designer handbags—things he's never given you."

My stomach tightened as she showed me the receipts—a diamond bracelet from Tiffany's, a Hermès Birkin bag, earrings from his own company.

"There's more," she continued, her voice dropping. "Hotel receipts from the Ritz-Carlton downtown. Restaurant charges at places he's never taken you."

I stared at the evidence, my hands gripping my coffee cup so tightly I feared it might shatter.

"And look at this," Teagan said, pulling up a final document. "A lease agreement for an apartment in the West Village. Signed three months ago."

The date hit me like a physical blow—the same weekend Reed had told me he was at a jewelry trade show in Chicago.

"Where is this apartment?" I whispered.

"I don't know yet," Teagan admitted. "But I'm going to find out."

As she spoke, my phone lit up with a new message from Reed: "Thinking of you, baby. Can't wait to make you mine forever."

I stared at the words, wondering how he could type them while living such an elaborate lie.

"What are you going to do?" Teagan asked quietly.

I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I twisted my father's locket between my fingers, feeling the cool metal against my skin.

"First," I said finally, "I'm going to find out exactly what he's been hiding."