Chapter 1

Without a word to me, my fiancé turned the wedding I'd waited eight years for into an open one.

He even announced it to everyone: he wanted to make every girl's dream of wearing a wedding gown come true.

So when he walked in leading a young girl in a floor-length mermaid gown—

I said nothing.

"Mrs. Sanchez, you look so beautiful today."

"If it weren't for you, I'd never get to wear a gown this elegant in my whole life."

Miranda Holland was the poor student I'd been sponsoring for seven years, and also the graduate student Edward Sanchez was advising.

All because of one line from her—"I'm never getting married in my life, I just want to put on a wedding dress and take a set of photos with Edward."

Edward spent a fortune, millions, buying more than a hundred gowns and handing them out to every woman at the wedding.

Among all that white gauze, I was the one who faded into nothing.

Even the photographer couldn't find the bride, so he just shot whoever he happened to catch.

Fine. Since I wasn't his one and only, there was no reason to go through with this marriage.

1

In the lounge, I stripped off the satin gown that had taken over a year to make.

Looking at myself in the mirror, hair pinned up with fresh flowers, a wave of desolation rose in me.

Everything around me had been arranged to my taste.

Dreamy. Romantic.

Only the man himself had quietly changed his heart.

The phone rang, pushing me. "Anya Quinn, what are you dragging your feet for now? The ceremony's already started. If I can't find you, I'll just have Miranda fill in."

"The wedding's only a formality anyway. None of my relatives even know you. Whether you show up or not makes no difference."

The clock on the wall read eight thirty. The ceremony didn't start until nine.

I pulled at the corner of my mouth. Hearts change easily—so why not the time of a wedding.

I'd just started for the door when a sharp cramp seized my lower belly and doubled me over onto the floor.

The door opened and my best friend Queenie Lawrence took one look and cried out.

"God, don't crush the bridal bouquet!"

"Those are gardenias, Miranda's favorite. Your husband had them air-freighted from the Netherlands just this morning. If you ruin them, he'll have a fit."

I stared, stunned, as she picked the bouquet up off the floor, brushed off the dust, and plucked away the few wilted blooms on the outside.

"Only the freshest buds are good enough for today's golden couple."

The pain twisted through my stomach. I forced out a breath and grabbed her ankle.

"Queenie, my stomach—it hurts, get me a doctor—"

She looked at me sprawled there on the floor.

She sighed. "Anya, I know Edward gave every woman here a gown and stole your thunder, and you feel wronged."

"But you don't have to fake being sick and wreck the mood, do you? You're the one who threw a little tantrum without reading the room, and thank God that girl Miranda stepped up to clean up your mess. You really ought to be grateful to her."

"All right, I've got to get back out there."

The door opened and shut, and every word stayed stuck in my throat.

Just yesterday, this was the friend who told me to hold on to my happiness for dear life, to keep an iron grip on any man who stepped out of line after marriage, who swore she couldn't stand even a speck of grit in her eye.

Now she was spinning like a top, running around to arrange the sham wedding of my fiancé and his student.

Why would she care whether I lived or died.

In the end, I passed out from the pain, and two cleaners carried me to the hospital.

The doctor's first diagnosis was food poisoning. After they pumped my stomach,

they asked me to think back on everything I'd eaten the night before.

I clenched my fist and remembered. The only thing that didn't add up was the takeout box Edward had brought home.

Seeing me go quiet, the doctor added, "Spoiled food can cause poisoning too. In your case it's most likely from eating too many leftovers. One minute later getting you here, and you might have gone into shock and died."

I picked up my phone and scrolled back to the dinner photo Miranda had posted two days ago.

Sure enough. The exact same food.

Only what she'd left half-eaten was what Edward would ever pack up and bring home to me.