Swapping Grooms: Revenge Of The True Heiress

Cassie sat alone in the bridal suite of the Rowland estate. The heavy gown was gone, replaced by a simple silk robe. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sprawling gardens were cloaked in darkness.

She walked to the dressing table and stared at her reflection. The face was hers, yet it felt like a stranger's.

Her fingers went to her wrist, tracing the outline of a unique, custom-made bracelet. It had been with her for as long as she could remember.

It was only after her "death" in her past life, as her soul lingered, that she had learned the shocking truth from a conversation between Eleanor and Fulton Beaumont.

The memory surged back, sharp and cold.

They were standing outside her hospital room, during the futile attempt to "save" her.

Fulton's voice was low, laced with fear. "She's dying! If she dies, what if the Sinclair family finds us? We stole their daughter!"

Eleanor's reply was chillingly pragmatic. "It's better if she dies. A dead girl can't prove she was the infant who disappeared from that hospital in Montana. This bracelet is the only proof. Once she's dead, the bracelet is ours."

Even now, reborn and safe, the memory made Cassie's breath catch in her throat. The cold was a physical thing.

She wasn't a foster daughter.

She was a stolen heiress.

It all made sense now. The vast difference in how the Beaumonts treated her versus their biological daughter, Amelia. Amelia was their precious child. Cassie was a tool, a pawn to be used for their benefit, and a secret to be buried at any cost.

They had arranged her marriage to Alex for the Beaumont family's gain.

And when she had accidentally stumbled upon evidence of Fulton using the family foundation for money laundering, they had conspired with Alex to have her "accidentally" killed.

It was to silence her.

And to bury the secret of her identity forever.

In the mirror, the woman's eyes burned with the promise of revenge. She was no longer the obedient, pliable Cassie Rosales.

Her only goal now was to make the Beaumont family and Alex Rowland pay in blood.

She gently twisted the bracelet on her wrist. Its intricate, ancient pattern glinted in the light.

Sinclair. She committed the name to memory.

To achieve her goal, she needed power. She needed a solid foundation. And Adrian Rowland, the head of the Rowland family, was her chosen weapon.

She knew the rumors. He was frail, sickly, not expected to live past thirty.

That was exactly what she needed. A temporary husband who would provide her with cover but not interfere with her plans.

She calmly analyzed the situation. The Rowland family was not a monolith. Alex's father, Marcus, had always coveted the inheritance.

Her actions today had thrown her directly into the center of the Rowland family's power struggle. But only from the center of the storm could she command the winds.

She stood and walked to the minibar, pouring herself a glass of champagne.

The cool liquid slid down her throat, calming the storm inside her.

Her first task was to solidify her position as "Mrs. Rowland."

That meant she had to gain Adrian's approval, or at the very least, his cooperation.

She thought about the words he had whispered at the altar. "A bold move. Don't make me regret it."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a threat. It was more like... an assessment between equals. That surprised her.

This man was far more complex than the rumors suggested.

She walked to the window. Down below, the last of the wedding guests were leaving. The farce of a wedding was finally over.

She knew Alex and the Beaumonts must be furious, already plotting their next move. They would try to have the marriage annulled. They would attack her with a media smear campaign.

But she didn't care. As long as Adrian stood by her, the Rowland name was her impenetrable shield.

As she stood there, lost in thought, a soft knock came at the door.

Cassie's heart skipped a beat. She turned to face the entrance.

She didn't answer. The person outside seemed patient, waiting in the silence.

After a few seconds, the handle turned. The door swung open.

Adrian Rowland walked in. He had changed out of his tuxedo and was wearing a dark, casual suit. In his hands, he held a tray.