The Price Of A Shredded Wedding Dress
My wedding day was supposed to be the start of forever. I was in my custom Vera Wang gown, about to marry Jameson Alvarez and merge our two powerful families.
But when his high school sweetheart staged a minor accident, he didn't just leave me at the altar.
In front of hundreds of guests, he ripped my wedding dress right off my body, leaving me exposed in my lingerie.
He used the shredded silk to cover her shoulders, shielding her from the crowd while I stood there, stripped bare for all to see.
Later, he sent a text asking me to "be a good sport" and reschedule. He thought the woman who loved him would simply forgive this ultimate humiliation.
But the Alannah who loved him died at that altar. My mind, cold and clear, recalled Section 7.2 of our pre-merger agreement.
I picked up my phone and made a call to my legal team.
"It's a breach," I said. "Activate the billion-dollar clause. Freeze everything."
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Chapter 3
Alannah Weaver POV
The heavy front door of the penthouse swung open late that night. I heard Jameson's familiar footsteps, slow and heavy, in the foyer. The clock on the bedside table read 2:17 AM. I lay in bed, feigning sleep, my heart a dull thud against my ribs. The apartment, typically buzzing with city sounds, was eerily quiet, amplifying his every movement. I knew he was coming to find me.
He walked into the bedroom. The faint light from the hallway spilled in, illuminating the packed suitcases by the door. His footsteps stopped abruptly. I heard his sharp intake of breath. He must have seen them. The silence stretched, thick with his dawning realization.
"Alannah?" His voice was rough, laced with disbelief. "What is this? What are you doing?" He knelt beside the suitcases, his hands touching the leather. "Are you really packing your bags over this? Over Aspen's minor accident? You're being dramatic." He spoke with an air of superiority, dismissing my pain as a childish tantrum. He still couldn't comprehend the depth of his offense.
He moved towards the bed, his hand reaching out for me. He sat on the edge, his weight dipping the mattress. "Come on, Alannah. This isn't like you. Don't be mad. I'm here now." His voice was low, attempting to be soothing, but it carried an undercurrent of irritation. He tried to pull me into his arms, to offer a superficial comfort that felt utterly repulsive.
He sighed, a dramatic exhalation meant to elicit sympathy. "It's been a long day, Alannah. I'm exhausted. Aspen needed me. I just want to forget all this and sleep. Can't we just move past it?" He leaned his head against mine, feigning vulnerability. He wanted to use my empathy against me, to erase his transgression with a plea of weariness. His words were a desperate attempt to manipulate, to avoid accountability.
A wave of nausea washed over me. His touch, once comforting, now made my skin crawl. The scent of his cologne, mingled with something vaguely floral that must have come from Aspen, filled my nostrils. It was repulsive. My stomach clenched. I fought the urge to push him away violently. My body stiffened, resisting his proximity.
I pushed him away, my hand pressing against his chest. It was not a gentle push. He stumbled back, his face a mask of surprise. My eyes, open now, met his. There was no softness in my gaze, only a cold, hard resolve. I made it clear: his touch was no longer welcome.
"Please, just leave," I said, my voice barely a whisper, yet firm. "Go sleep in the guest room. I need space." My words were clipped, emotionless. I wanted him gone. I wanted him out of my sight. My demand was simple, direct, and non-negotiable.
His eyes narrowed. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Don't be ridiculous, Alannah. This is our bed. You're not going to kick me out over this." His tone hardened, his patience wearing thin. He saw my request as a challenge to his authority, an act of defiance. He was not used to being told what to do, especially not by me.
"Don't push me, Alannah," he warned, his voice low and dangerous. "You know how I get when I'm tired. Don't make things worse than they already are." His words were a thinly veiled threat, a reminder of his volatile temper. He was trying to intimidate me, to force me back into my role as the compliant fiancée.
He stood up abruptly, a sharp movement that made the bed creak. He walked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. The sound echoed through the silent apartment, a jarring thunderclap. He left me alone, as he always did, to deal with the aftermath of his actions.
He believed I would stew in my anger for a day or two, then eventually forgive him. He believed my love for him was endless, my patience limitless. He mistook my composure for weakness, my silence for submission. He thought I was still the woman who would bend to his will, always seeking his approval. He was wrong. He always underestimated me.
His dismissal of my feelings, his blatant disregard for my humiliation, cemented my resolve. He no longer deserved my pity, my understanding, or my forgiveness. He had crossed a line, a line from which there was no return. This was not a lovers' spat. This was a war. And I intended to win.
The next morning, the door to the bedroom burst open without a knock. Jameson stood there, fully dressed in a crisp suit, holding a crumpled bundle of clothes. "Get up, Alannah," he commanded, his voice sharp. He tossed a dress, a conservative navy blue, and a pair of heels onto the bed. "Put this on. We have a charity gala tonight. You're coming with me." His tone allowed no argument. He was back to his usual domineering self, assuming full control.
I looked at the clothes, then at him. "I'm not going," I said, my voice calm, unwavering. "I'm not feeling well." My refusal was firm, a direct challenge to his command. I would not allow him to dictate my actions any longer.
"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped, his eyes flashing with irritation. He walked to the bed, grabbing my arm. His grip was surprisingly strong. "You are my fiancée, Alannah. You will attend this gala. Our families are presenting a joint donation. We need to show a united front, especially after yesterday's debacle." He pulled me out of bed, his fingers digging into my arm. His voice, though lowered, carried an undeniable force. "This is not a request. It's an order."
He held my arm firmly, guiding me towards the ensuite bathroom. He pushed me inside, his presence oppressive. "Smile, Alannah," he instructed, his voice low and menacing. "Pretend everything is perfectly fine. We are a power couple. We are in love. Don't you dare embarrass me again." His words were a cruel reminder of the performance he expected. He demanded that I play the loyal, loving fiancée, a charade for the sake of his reputation.
I found myself dressed and standing beside Jameson, navigating the opulent ballroom of the charity gala. The air hummed with hundreds of conversations, the clinking of glasses, and the soft strains of a live orchestra. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting a warm glow on the polished marble floors. Prominent figures from every industry mingled, their faces a mix of feigned interest and genuine curiosity. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and unspoken judgments. I felt a palpable sense of unease, a tightening in my chest. This was another test, another public display of his control.
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7.7
My fiancé always told me he loved me. But not long after our engagement, I woke up suffocating in the dark.
He was pressing a pillow over my face, his eyes cold and dead, while my half-sister stood by watching with fake pity.
They had orchestrated everything just to steal my trust fund.
It all started with a massive hotel scandal. They had drugged me, thrown a cheap escort into my bed, and brought a mob of paparazzi to ruin my reputation.
When my fiancé broke through the crowd, playing the heartbroken victim, he knelt down with a massive diamond ring.
"I know things have been hard, but I love you. If you come home with me, I will forgive all of this."
In my past life, I cried tears of gratitude and let him slide that ring onto my finger.
That ring sealed my death warrant. I lost my company, my dignity, and eventually, my life.
Until my lungs burned and my heart stopped, I didn't understand.
How could the people I trusted most plot my murder so ruthlessly?
Why did they have to tear my entire life apart?
Opening my eyes again, I was back on the morning of the hotel scandal, exactly one year ago.
But the man lying bare-backed in my bed wasn't a random escort.
It was Johnathan Chase, my family's biggest corporate rival and the most ruthless predator on Wall Street.
Listening to the paparazzi pounding on the door, I smiled coldly.
9.3
On her wedding night at The Plaza Hotel, Clara went looking for her husband.
Instead, she found him in the dimly lit parking garage, passionately pinning down her bridesmaid.
She couldn't even scream or expose them. Just hours before the ceremony, Julian had tricked her into signing away her twenty percent shares of their co-founded company, leaving her completely penniless and unable to pay her grandmother's life-saving medical bills.
Fleeing in absolute despair, a sudden hotel blackout plunged her into a second nightmare. She was dragged into a pitch-black room and brutally violated by a heavily drugged stranger.
When a shattered Clara returned to the office to audit the books and reclaim her power, Julian demoted her to a dusty desk by the trash cans.
He flaunted his mistress in the executive suite and deliberately sent Clara into a horrifying trap. He arranged for vicious clients to drug and assault her, demanding high-definition blackmail photos so he could divorce her with absolutely nothing.
"Since you want to play rough, you can service Mr. Petrocelli tonight," the thug sneered, locking the VIP room door.
Clara was pushed to the brink of hell. Why was the man she devoted three years of her life to trying to destroy her so completely? And why did the freezing cedarwood scent of the stranger who ruined her in the dark perfectly match Conrad Vance, the ruthless CEO and Julian's untouchable uncle?
Rather than let Julian win, Clara smashed a glass bottle, held the jagged edge to her own throat to force the men back, and threw herself off the second-floor balcony into the freezing night.
But the bone-crushing impact never came. A massive figure shot out from the shadows and caught her, and her brutal counterattack finally began.
8.3
He wants to save her. She wants to hide.
She's damaged. He's determined.
Fate brought them together. Love binds them.
Johnny Kavanagh is the definition of popular. He is an all-star rugby player with loads of friends, which means he should be enjoying the many perks of his life. But what people don't know is that he has been dealing with a painful injury that could halt the magnificent trajectory of his career. This means he has no time for distractions or mistakes. Especially not a girlfriend.
Shannon Lynch has been bullied all her life. She is shy and would rather hide herself away to make it through school. But when she arrives at Tommen College for a fresh start, she meets the notorious Johnny Kavanagh on her first day in a not-so-romantic way. What follows is a complicated friendship that turns into undeniable chemistry. It seems that Shannon won't be able to hold onto the anonymous status she once hoped for. But maybe that's alright?
Johnny won't give up on Shannon. No matter what it might cost them both.
8.9
The mangled car teetered on the cliff's edge, my leg crushed, gasoline fumes thick in the air. My husband, Holden, stood safe on the highway, directing the rescue – but not for me. He was saving her, the woman in the passenger seat, leaving me and our unborn child to the ocean below.
I woke trapped in the crushed Maybach, leg pinned. The cliff loomed; the driver's seat was empty.
Holden, safe outside, directed paramedics past me to Giana, his "most valuable asset," ordering her rescue first.
I watched him comfort Giana, oblivious, as the car slid. My baby barely viable. Holden offered a black card for silence; Giana gloated.
Ten years of devotion, a cruel lie. Rage fueled me: how could he abandon his wife and child?
I swore a venomous oath: never again an accessory. I flicked his card away, shielded my pregnancy, and promised my baby escape.
8.0
I bought an antique four-poster bed at Sotheby's, said to be the final resting place of a long-dead European king.
A week later, I woke up to the thick smell of blood, only to find a massive, heavily wounded man in my bed holding a forged steel sword to my throat.
He was dressed in ruined velvet and gold, bleeding out from a massive abdominal gash. When I tried to save him with modern medicine, he called it sorcery and nearly choked me to death. He destroyed my expensive appliances, treating my home like a witch's lair. I thought he was a lunatic cosplayer who broke in, until he tossed me a massive ruby ring as a down payment for my help. I looked it up online. It was the lost coronation ring of King Cain the Cruel, valued at thirty million dollars.
I was terrified of this savage who could snap my neck in an instant. I couldn't comprehend how a tyrant who had been dead for 135 years was breathing in my attic, until he lay back down on the antique mattress and literally vanished into thin air before my eyes.
The bed was a time portal.
The police would lock him in a psych ward and confiscate the priceless artifact, leaving me with nothing but bloodstained sheets and trauma.
"I can give you more wealth than you can imagine."
So, when he reappeared and offered me the lost Fabergé eggs of his fallen empire in exchange for modern shelter, I didn't call 911. I took his hand and became the 21st-century gatekeeper for a time-traveling king.
9.7
I tried to quit.
My boss said no.
When you work for billionaire restaurateur Bastian Hale, every day is an exercise in endurance.
He screams at you in front of half the staff? Endure.
He tears your work to bits and tells you to start again? Endure.
He surprises you shirtless in the office late one night? Endure... then go home and die of embarrassment.
I've endured six years of Bastian Hale.
I can endure anything.
... Until my doctor tells me I'm going blind in ninety days.
Suddenly, enduring isn't the goal anymore.
Living is.
Seeing everything I can before the lights go out forever.
And that means one thing: quitting the job that's consumed my entire adult life.
There's just one problem:
Bastian doesn't accept my resignation.
Instead, he shreds my letter to pieces...
Offers me a million dollars to stay...
And vows to make my last ninety days of sight worth remembering.
The man is arrogant. Brutal. Cold as the walk-in freezer.
But his hands are warm.
And in the dark, he teaches me things my eyes never could.
I wanted one last look at the light.
I got a taste of the dark instead.