Trapped in my Sister's Wedding Vows
She was never meant to be his bride.
Mireya Sutton has spent her entire life living in her sister's shadow. Mireya is kind, loyal, and always overlooked. A talented fashion designer, she's used to creating beauty with her own hands, but nothing could have prepared her for the chaos her sister leaves behind. When her sister vanishes on the morning of her wedding, leaving scandal and heartbreak in her wake, Mireya is forced to take her place.
Standing at the altar is Ronan Ashcroft: cold, furious, and convinced she orchestrated the betrayal. To him, she is nothing but a substitute bride, a constant reminder of the sister who disappeared without a trace.
But duty and family honor leave her no choice. Bound by vows she never wanted, Mireya must navigate a marriage filled with tension, suspicion, and a man who refuses to believe in her innocence.
As if that weren't enough, a love triangle emerges, someone from her past reappears, offering the comfort, care, and understanding that Ronan withholds. Torn between safety and desire, loyalty and passion, Mireya must confront her heart's deepest desires.
Secrets begin to surface: Why did her sister truly disappear? Who can she trust? And could the man she never expected to love actually be the one she's meant to marry?
Slowly, Ronan's walls begin to crack, revealing a man driven by love, obsession, and a dark past he refuses to share. But as the slow burn tension between them intensifies, the stakes rise higher than ever. Betrayal, jealousy, and forbidden attraction collide in a marriage where no one is safe, and no one is truly free.
Trapped in obligations, caught between two hearts, and determined to protect her dreams and independence, Mireya must fight to survive a love that could consume everything she holds dear.
đ Will she follow her heart... or honor her vows?
đ„ Love, betrayal, secrets, and obsession collide in this gripping slow burn romance.
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Chapter 6
"That isn't me," Mireya whispered again, fragile as glass under Ronan's stare.
He said nothing.
The office felt suffocating. Silence stretched, broken only by the faint hum of Ashcroft Holdings' corporate floors far below. He watched her, predator still, unreadable, his dark eyes slicing through her composure.
"Look carefully," he said at last, voice calm, dangerous.
He rotated the tablet, zooming in on the still from security footage. The figure wore a pale coat, nearly identical to Mireya's. Posture, height, hairstyle, it mirrored her perfectly. Grainy glitch aside, the resemblance was terrifying.
Mireya's fingers trembled.
"I've never been near her car," she insisted. "Ronan, I swear to you."
He studied her face, measuring each flicker of emotion.
"You expect me to believe someone who looks exactly like my wife is involved in my sister-in-law's disappearance?" he asked coldly.
"I expect you to believe me," she said, voice cracking. "I don't know who it is."
Ronan placed the tablet on his desk.
"You were called by the police."
"Yes."
"And?"
"They found fabric from one of my label's designs in Arabella's car."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"Convenient," he murmured.
"You think I would hurt my own sister?"
"I think," he said evenly, "people are capable of far worse than they admit."
The words landed heavier than she expected.
Mr. Calder entered, tension etched into his usually composed features.
"Sir, the detective unit has requested Mrs. Ashcroft for questioning. A warrant is prepared if she refuses."
"She won't refuse," Ronan said calmly, gaze fixed on Mireya.
"You believe I'm innocent... don't you?" she asked, desperate.
"I believe," he said slowly, "the truth will surface."
It was no comfort. Only judgment waiting to strike.
Metropolitan Investigation Unit
The interrogation room smelled of disinfectant and stale coffee. Harsh light fell across the metal table. Mireya's hands clasped tightly in her lap to hide their trembling.
Detective Hargrove flipped through a thick file.
"The fabric sample came from your latest couture collection," he said.
"That collection hasn't launched publicly," she replied. "Only my team and private clients have access."
"So your designs are exclusive?"
"Yes."
"Meaning whoever left that fabric had direct access to your studio."
Mireya swallowed. "My staff would never..."
"You'd be surprised how loyalty collapses under pressure," Hargrove interrupted. He slid photos across the table: Arabella's car, blood smeared on leather, torn fabric lodged deep inside the hinge.
"Do you recognize this coat design?" he asked.
Her voice was barely audible. "Yes."
"Who owns it?"
"Custom tailored... for a private client."
Hargrove leaned forward. "Name?"
Mireya hesitated. Fear curled in her stomach.
"...Arabella requested it," she whispered.
"Your sister ordered a coat from your label that matches the fabric in her own car?"
"Yes... but I never finished delivering it. She picked it up herself during a private fitting weeks ago."
"Who else attended?"
"My assistant coordinated it, one seamstress for final adjustments."
"Names?"
She provided them quietly.
Hargrove nodded. "For now, you're not under arrest but officially a person of interest."
The words cut deep.
Ashcroft Conglomerate â Executive Lounge
Ronan stared at the city lights as dusk fell, reflection sharp and ruthless.
Harrison placed a file on the table.
"Background checks on Mireya's design staff," Mr. Calder said.
"Anything?" Ronan asked.
"Nothing suspicious yet. But..." Harrison hesitated.
Ronan's gaze shifted.
"The Sutton family's finances show unusual transfers three months ago," Calder said. "Large payments through shell companies tied to political donors. Arabella managed those accounts before disappearing."
Silence stretched.
Calder slid a photo across the table: Mireya leaving her studio late at night, laughing with someone whose gloved hand rested lightly on her shoulder. Security cameras had caught this figure repeatedly, always avoiding facial recognition.
Ronan's expression darkened. "Find them."
Sutton Mansion â Private Study
Mrs. Sutton pressed her lips tight.
"Mireya has always been fragile," she said dismissively. "Perhaps this pressure will break her enough to divert attention from us."
"You're willing to sacrifice one daughter to protect our image?" Mr. Sutton asked.
Mrs. Sutton didn't answer. Silence spoke.
Ashcroft Penthouse â Night
Mireya returned exhausted. Hours of questioning had drained her.
Ronan stood by the fireplace, shadows flickering across his face.
"You're home late," he said.
"They questioned me for hours."
"Did you lie?"
"No."
"Are you lying to me?"
The question cut like a blade.
"I'm terrified," she admitted, voice shaking, "but I am not guilty."
Ronan studied her hands, something soft almost flickering in his gaze before disappearing.
"If you're innocent," he murmured, "someone is deliberately framing you. In my world, people don't attack directly. They destroy what you love first."
He tilted her chin, forcing her to meet his piercing gaze.
Mireya's heartbeat thundered. "Do you think Arabella was the target... or me?"
Ronan's silence was worse than any answer.
Later, she sat alone, replaying the interrogation, Ronan's warning echoing: someone was destroying what she loved.
A sudden disturbance downstairs: voices, sharp, urgent.
She stepped into the hallway as Mr. Calder moved briskly past her door.
"Mr. Calder?"
"Best remain inside your room," he said without turning fully.
"What happened?"
Ronan's voice cut from below, cold and commanding.
"Bring her in."
Ignoring Calder's subtle block, Mireya descended the stairs. Two guards forced a trembling woman through the penthouse entrance.
Designer coat torn, mascara smeared, sobs uncontrolled.
Mireya froze. Lila Moreno. Senior seamstress at her studio for three years, involved in Arabella's wedding gown fittings.
The guards pushed Lila to her knees.
"Madam... please..."
Mireya's heart twisted. "Why is she here?"
Ronan stepped forward, looming.
"She attempted to board a private flight out tonight," he said calmly.
Lila shook. "I didn't mean... I only copied measurements..."
"Who hired you?" Ronan asked, voice quiet but lethal.
"I... I can't say," she whispered.
"They threatened to kill her!" Lila cried suddenly.
"Kill who?" Mireya demanded.
"Your sister," Lila whispered, broken.
The words shattered her.
Ronan's gaze shifted to Mireya, lethal now.
"How much do you know about Arabella's disappearance?" he asked.
"I told you everything," Mireya said, barely steady.
"If Arabella is alive," he said coldly, "whoever did this has declared war on my household."
Lila sobbed harder.
Ronan nodded sharply. "Take her downstairs. I want every name she remembers before sunrise."
Mireya remained frozen, mind spinning. Arabella might still be alive. But someone wanted her dead. And Ronan Ashcroft had just stepped into the fight.
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7.1
For seven years, I was the architect of my fiancĂ©'s criminal empire and the strategist behind his every move. I was Dante Galloâs unofficial Consigliere, his partner in everything but name. Tomorrow, I was finally supposed to marry him and take my place as the queen to his throne.
But on the eve of our wedding, a single text message sent by mistake detonated my life. It was a photo from Dante, showing a platinum wedding band on his hand. The message read: âMarried this morning. Sheâs safe now.â
My gaze fell to the engagement ring on my own finger. It was the identical band, just smaller. The engraved initials âD.I.â didnât stand for Dante and I. They stood for Dante and Isabellaâhis childhood sweetheart. My entire relationship was a lie; I was just a shield to protect his one true love.
He dismissed my discovery as a "tantrum." Then, his new bride began taunting me, sending a picture of them tangled in bedsheets with the caption: "Loser." They expected me to break. They thought I would shatter.
They were about to find out just how wrong they were. I forwarded the picture to Isabellaâs fiancĂ©, a man far more dangerous than Dante. "Your fiancĂ©e is in Suite 8808 at the Grand Hyatt," I told him. "I'll meet you downstairs. We're going to crash their party."
8.3
On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldnât miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news.
He was shielding another womanâhis ruthless business partnerâfrom a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city.
The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: âSomething came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.â
For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets.
My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me.
So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts.
He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line Iâd marked.
He didnât know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree.
He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.
8.8
My father bailed a violent ex-con out of prison just to force me into a marriage with him. I stood in a filthy Bronx hallway, my Vera Wang gown dragging through the grime, knowing this was the price for my motherâs life. If I didn't marry the man behind the steel door, the wire transfer for her hospital ventilator wouldn't go through the next morning.
The man, a scarred giant named Dock, treated me with cold contempt, telling me he didn't touch things he didn't wantâand he didn't want a "Jacobson." I thought I had hit rock bottom, tied to a criminal while my family lived in luxury. But the nightmare was just beginning.
When I tried to return my wedding dress to pay for rent, my sister Janie and stepmother found me. They laughed as security dragged me out of the boutique, calling me a "charity case." When I finally crawled back to our family manor to beg for the money my father had promised, Janie revealed the horrific truth. She had liquidated my motherâs medical trust to fund a waterfront real estate project.
"Get out and let your mother rot," she screamed, throwing a glass of ice water in my face before having guards dump me in the dirt. I knelt on the gravel, wet and bleeding, realizing my own flesh and blood had signed my mother's death warrant for a profit. I had nothing leftâno money, no home, and a husband who was supposed to be a monster.
I didn't understand why they hated me so much, or how I would survive the night. But then, a black car screeched to a halt in front of me. Dock pulled me inside, his eyes burning with a lethal coldness Iâd never seen in a common thug.
As he wiped the blood from my hands, he picked up a encrypted phone and gave a single command.
"Initiate Project Titan. I want the Jacobson Group insolvent by Friday."
I looked at the man I thought was a broke felon, realizing I hadn't just married a strangerâI had married the most dangerous man in the city, and he was about to burn my family's world to the ground.
8.1
She never imagined love would begin with a marriage she didn't want.
Forced into a union to save her family, Elena promised herself one thing, she would never love her husband.
But the man she hated was nothing like she expected...
And the heart she tried to protect slowly betrayed her.
8.2
The sensation of falling wasn't like flying; it was heavy, violent, and smelled of burning flesh. Above us, on the crumbling balcony of the Sears manor, Duke Cato Sears turned his back, shielding his cousin Bianca from the smoke as he walked away, leaving my sister Blossom and me to drop into the abyss.
As the darkness slammed shut like an iron door, I realized my entire life had been a cruel script written by the people I called family.
In my first life, I was the sacrificial lamb of the Dawson manor, sold to a man who eventually watched me die without blinking. My sister Blossom had pushed me into Cato's arms to avoid his rumors, only to laugh when the fire finally consumed us both. My father had measured my value like a piece of livestock, and my step-grandmother didn't even acknowledge my existence while I was being led to the slaughter.
I died in that fire, feeling the heat scorch my skin and the weight of a hatred so potent it tasted like bile. I spent twenty years being the weak, manipulated shadow of a girl, only to end up as nothing more than a phantom scorch mark on a "hero's" estate.
I couldn't understand why my own blood treated my life like a game they could discard. The injustice of it all burned hotter than the flames that took my last breath.
Then, I sat up, sucking in air that tasted of lavender and air conditioning, not smoke. I was back in my bedroom, three days before the engagement ball that ruined my life. Blossom stood at the door, her "sweet" mask slipping as she tried to manipulate me into the Duke's path again.
She thought she was the only one who had come back, but she didn't realize that this time, I was going to let her have exactly what she wanted: the Duke, the bankruptcy, and the living hell that awaited her in that house.
7.9
Everyone knew Kristine loved Colton. Still, his heart clung to a woman overseas-someone he spent most days with, now pregnant with his baby-and Kristine still asked him to marry her.
On their registration day, however, he never came; his "true love" had flown back.
Seven years of loyalty later, Kristine walked away, blocked him, and left his city.
Colton didn't blink-until he saw her at the courthouse, arm-in-arm with another man, and the proud CEO went pale. He went after her, desperation overtaking him.
"I'm sorry. Please give me another chance."
She snapped, "Could you stop? I'm already married."