Before I Say I Do: The Billionaire Heiress Returns

I slammed my palm over Mia's fingers, pinning her hand against the crushed petals.

"Don't touch it," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "The stems have thorns. You'll bleed on your dress."

Mia jerked her hand back, her eyes wide. "I was just trying to help, Viv."

"I know," I said, twisting my wrist to scoop the silver recorder from the foliage. I slid the cold metal into the hidden pocket of my bridal skirt, keeping my eyes locked on hers. "But we have a wedding to finish. The cameras are waiting."

Mia rubbed her wrist, her blush-pink nails digging into her palms. "Right. Of course. We shouldn't keep Asher waiting."

She turned and marched out of the suite without looking back.

Ten minutes later, the cathedral doors swung open again. The organ music swelled, louder and more insistent than before. I walked down the aisle, my chin raised, my empty hands clasped in front of my waist.

Asher met me at the altar steps. He didn't wait for the priest to speak. He reached out and draped his tailored velvet jacket over my bare shoulders, pulling the lapels tight across my chest.

"You're shivering, sweetheart," he murmured into my ear, loud enough for the priest's lapel microphone to catch. "I've got you. I'm right here."

A wave of applause erupted from the pews. Twenty-three million people watching at home were likely swooning at the gesture. The devoted groom, protecting his fragile, overwhelmed bride.

"Thank you," I whispered, leaning into the lie.

We said our vows. We exchanged rings. We smiled for the flashing cameras until my cheeks ached.

At the reception, the ballroom smelled of roasted meats and expensive champagne. I sat at the head table, watching the sea of guests toast to our eternal happiness.

Asher leaned over, sliding a thick manila folder across the linen tablecloth. A silver fountain pen sat on top of it.

"What is this?" I asked, eyeing the embossed legal crest on the cover.

"Just some household paperwork," Asher said, pouring himself a glass of scotch. "Insurance updates, property tax forms for the studio, some standard trust maintenance. My lawyer dropped them off this morning. We need your initials on the highlighted tabs before we leave for the honeymoon."

I picked up the pen, uncapping it slowly. "Why now?"

"You know how your memory gets when you're stressed, Viv," he said, his tone dripping with practiced concern. "Since the accident, you forget these little administrative details. I've been handling the filings for you, but the bank needs your actual signature on the updates."

"Right," I said. "My memory."

"Just sign on the yellow tabs, baby. I'll take care of the rest." He kissed my forehead, then stood up to shake hands with a visiting senator at the next table.

I waited until his back was turned. Then, I opened the folder.

I didn't look at the yellow tabs. I flipped the pages backward, checking the appended audit trail from the last twenty-four months.

My fingers traced the cold paper, moving from one signature block to the next.

One. An equity transfer agreement, dated three months after the car crash. Five percent of Lockhart Media moved to a holding company I didn't recognize.

Two. A voting rights proxy, giving Asher total control over my board seat.

Three. A commercial lease cancellation for my coastal studio.

Four. Five. Six.

I stopped counting at eleven.

Eleven separate legal documents, all bearing my scrawled signature. Eleven authorizations I had never read, never discussed, and never signed.

You forget these little administrative details.

He had used my supposed memory loss as a shield, forging my name while I sat at home trying to rebuild my mind from the scraps he fed me.

My chest tightened, the air in the ballroom suddenly too thin to breathe.

Before we got engaged, Asher's first venture had been drowning in debt. Bankruptcy lawyers were circling his office every morning. I had walked into my bank without telling him, handed over the deed to my coastal studio—a property worth four hundred and eighty thousand dollars—and signed a mortgage agreement to clear his debts.

I had bled for him. I had traded my inheritance to keep him afloat.

In return, we had drafted a contract giving me thirty percent equity in his new venture. A legal guarantee of my stake in our future.

I looked down at the seventh document in the stack.

It was an equity dilution amendment. My thirty percent stake had been systematically stripped away, sliced into tiny parcels and transferred to offshore accounts over the last two years.

I had zero percent left. I owned nothing.

I reached into my clutch, pulling out my phone. I slid it under the edge of the linen tablecloth, resting the camera lens over the pages.

Click.

I silenced the shutter sound, turning the page with my left hand while my right thumb tapped the capture button.

Click.

I photographed the forged signatures, the notary stamps, the transfer dates. I sent the entire encrypted album directly to Grant Gallagher's private server, wiping the local copies from my phone the second the upload confirmed.

I slid the phone back into my purse and closed the folder, leaving the yellow tabs untouched.

When I looked up, the air across the ballroom felt electric.

Asher was standing by the champagne tower, his glass raised in a toast to his groomsmen. Through the gaps in the crowd, Mia stood near the exit doors, her blush-pink gown catching the chandelier light.

Asher didn't turn his head, but his eyes flicked sideways.

Mia gave him a single, sharp nod.

It lasted less than a second. A silent, rapid exchange across a crowded room of celebrating guests.

They thought I was blind. They thought the brain fog had made me docile, a puppet they could maneuver until my bank accounts were empty.

I picked up my champagne flute, taking a long sip. The liquid tasted like ash, but I kept my smile intact. I was done being the victim in their private tragedy.

I opened the folder one last time, pulling out the eleventh document—the one Asher had added to the back of the stack just this morning.

I pulled my phone out again, zooming in on the fine print beneath the final yellow tab.

The document was a life insurance beneficiary modification form.

I scanned the printed date at the top of the page.

Tomorrow's date.

I read the clause beneath my pre-printed, unsigned name: In the event of the insured's accidental death, one hundred percent of the trust assets shall transfer immediately to the primary beneficiary, Asher Cole.

Below that, a secondary clause had been added in bold ink.

Secondary beneficiary: Mia Thornton.