My Groom Forced Me to Share My Wedding with His Mistress

He kissed me goodnight at the door of the guest room.

Not the bedroom. The guest room. The one with the firm mattress and the blackout curtains and the air purifier he'd moved in three days ago because my pregnancy nausea was, in his words, 'aggravating his condition.'

'Big day tomorrow,' he said. He smiled. Gentle. Reassuring. 'You need your rest.'

I stood in the hallway and watched him close the door.

He didn't look back.

I waited until I heard the lock click. Then I walked to my closet and pulled out the second garment bag.

Not the Vera Wang. That one was already at The Plaza, hanging in the bridal suite, waiting for Isla to find it exactly where I'd left it.

This one was different.

I unzipped the bag slowly. The fabric inside was white, but not the soft romantic white of tulle and lace. This was architectural. Sharp. A column gown with clean lines and a high neckline, the kind of dress you wear when you're not trying to look beautiful. You're trying to look untouchable.

I hung it on the back of the door and looked at it for a long time.

Tomorrow, I would not be a bride.

I would be an auctioneer.

I slept four hours. Dreamless. When I woke, the sun was already up.

---

The Plaza at eight in the morning was all marble and gold light and staff moving quietly through hallways with clipboards and earpieces. I walked through the lobby with my garment bag over one arm and my laptop case over the other. No one stopped me. I looked like I belonged.

The bridal suite was on the third floor. Double doors. A small brass plaque that said *Private Event*. I pushed through.

The room was enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A chandelier that looked like it cost more than most people's houses. White roses everywhere. A makeup station set up near the mirror, brushes and palettes arranged like surgical tools.

And standing in the center of the room, backlit by the morning sun, was Isla Dixon.

Wearing my dress.

The Vera Wang. The one I had spent six fittings perfecting. Two hundred thousand dollars of custom silk and hand-stitched lace, designed for my body, my measurements, my wedding.

On her, it didn't fit.

The bodice strained across her chest. The boning dug into her ribs. The zipper was pulled as high as it would go, but there was still a two-inch gap at the back, the fabric puckering and twisting. Sweat darkened the neckline. Foundation streaked the collar.

She turned when she heard me come in.

Her face lit up. Not embarrassed. Triumphant.

'Evangeline!' she said. Her voice was high and breathless, like she'd just run up a flight of stairs. 'Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I was just trying it on for fun and the zipper—it's completely stuck. I literally can't get it off.'

She tugged at the fabric. It didn't move.

'I'm so embarrassed,' she said. She wasn't.

I set my garment bag down on the sofa. I set my laptop case beside it. I turned to face her.

I didn't say anything right away. I just looked at her. The way I look at a lot before I open bidding. Assessing. Cataloging. Deciding what it's worth.

She shifted her weight. The dress made a small tearing sound.

I smiled.

Not warm. Not kind. The smile I use when someone tries to pull out of a contract five minutes before the gavel drops.

'That dress,' I said slowly, 'has a purchase clause.'

Her smile faltered.

'Any individual who wears the garment prior to the contracted ceremony date and causes damage—staining, stretching, tearing, or alteration of fit—assumes full financial liability for replacement value.'

I took one step closer.

'You're wearing it. It's damaged. You owe two hundred thousand dollars.'

The color drained from her face.

'What?'

'Two hundred thousand,' I repeated. 'Itemized as follows: base gown, one hundred sixty thousand. Custom lace appliqué, eighteen thousand. Hand-beading, twelve thousand. Alterations and fittings, ten thousand. Rush replacement fee, given that you've destroyed it eighteen hours before the ceremony—' I paused. 'That's an additional forty percent.'

I pulled my phone from my bag. I opened my assistant's contact.

'I'm having the invoice sent now,' I said. 'You're listed as primary. Kade Montgomery is co-signatory on the bridal expense account, so he'll be copied as backup guarantor.'

Isla's mouth opened. No sound came out.

I tapped my index finger once against the side of my phone.

Then I hit send.

The room was very quiet.

Isla looked down at the dress. At the sweat stains. At the gap in the zipper. At the small split forming along the side seam.

'You can't,' she whispered.

'I already did,' I said.

I walked to the sofa. I picked up my garment bag. I unzipped it and pulled out the white column gown.

'You can keep that one,' I said. 'It suits you.'

I walked into the dressing room and closed the door.

Behind me, I heard her start to cry.

I hung my dress on the hook and looked at myself in the mirror.

My hands were steady.

In six hours, the ceremony would start. The cameras would go live. Two million people would be watching.

And I would be ready.