–Laura–
The greatest gift that day was my sister performing at my wedding. The whole family was stunned, probably because they’d all been secretly yearning for her to play that cello again. The mont I stepped into the aisle, the first note she struck wrapped around my heart like a ribbon. It wasn’t just any song—it was the one she composed for and Damien, for our love story. Each bow stroke carried mories, each note whispered our journey.
Damien stood there—oh, he looked so dashing, so painfully perfect—that I had to bite my lip to keep from tearing up. After days of frantic, nerve-wracking preparations, of sleepless nights and my mind gnawing on every detail, we finally arrived at this mont. I pushed away the shadows of last night’s restless dream and allowed myself to be swept away by the lody my sister poured her heart into.
The song swelled and ended in a bright G sharp, echoing through the garden like the finale of a fairytale. My gaze flicked to Damon; he gently kissed his wife’s forehead before guiding her up, escorting her to a place a few ters from . Then he joined the groom’s n’s side, leaving to face my husband, who was gaping at behind the delicate veil as though I was so ethereal being.
And in that mont, I truly saw it—the garden they prepared for us. I was utterly spellbound. Real vines twined around the gazebo like nature’s own lace, heavy with blooms that glowed in the sun’s embrace. Butterflies—huge ones, wings shimring with soft iridescence—fluttered lazily amidst the flowers. It was as if the pages of my childhood dream had unfolded into reality, each detail ticulously placed, each petal and vine and breeze conspiring to make this day magical.
I never wanted a grand wedding, never craved the noise of hundreds of people clinking glasses. This was intimate. Intentional. Just as I wished. Well, almost. There was one wish left unt, and I knew it would remain impossible—my mother.
The priest stood before us, his voice a low, resonant murmur that I barely caught; the world had narrowed to Damien’s hands entwined with mine, to the warmth of his fingers steadying my own trembling ones. We exchanged vows—words like promises carved from light—and then rings, cold against our warm skin. And when he kissed , sealing our marriage, I felt the world bloom.
We turned, and I finally saw them all—our families, including Damien’s. Everyone except for her real father, and that self-entitled stepmother who once made her life a cage. Good. I didn’t want them here. Their absence was a gift in itself.
"Let’s party!" I cried out, as Logan struck the keys of the grand piano, shifting the air with a bright, danceable tune. The crowd erupted in cheers. Even my stepmother was there—annoying as ever, eyes glued to her phone. But we had made sure this venue was a dead zone; no signal, no interruptions. For once, she was powerless.
After a flurry of photos by the flower-draped gazebo—more kisses from my husband, more laughter wrapped around my waist—I hugged my sister tightly. She had made this wedding not just beautiful, but achingly romantic.
Later, as the twilight dipped into rose and gold, we returned to the residence to prepare for the party. In our room, I wrapped my arms around Livana once more.
"When did you compose that song?" I asked while Sophia and Deanne fussed over fabrics and accessories.
"When we were teens," she said softly. "Back when Mom was still around, and you were already planning your dream wedding in your head. You’d always bring Damien ho for dinners... even when you had your first boyfriend, and sohow still kept Damien as your best friend."
"And when Damien threatened that first boyfriend," Deanne cut in, smirking.
"Yeah! I rember," Sophia chid. "He caught that guy cheating—and then your so-called boyfriend beca possessive of you."
Deanne glanced at slyly. "Was your first boyfriend your first kiss?"
I bit my lower lip. "I think... it was Damien, actually. We got drunk one night and accidentally kissed. Our faces just... bumped." I chuckled, embarrassed. "And then, well... there was so awkward dry humping. We laughed it off the next day and pretended it never happened."
Livana crossed her arms, her voice arch. "How old were you?"
"Relax, I was seventeen."
"Too young," Sophia laughed. "I had sex at sixteen," she announced proudly.
"With that muscular captain from Damon’s security?"
"Whoa—" Livana threw her hands up. "You guys were already—"
"Hey, teens these days are scarier than back then," Sophia defended, while Deanne helped step into my party dress—a playful balloon-skirted piece that swirled just above my knees. They styled my hair down, lacing it with delicate glitters that caught the light like stardust.
The room buzzed with chatter.
"But what about Francis? Is he trying to get back together?" Deanne asked.
"You two were together a long ti, weren’t you?" Livana added, her brow arched as I tried to summon his face from my mory. Familiar, but blurry, like a faded photograph.
The three of them had always shared a closer bond than I with them. Sophia had traveled the world, training to beco Livana’s right hand; Livana herself was forever balancing college with the company. And ? I stayed here, rooted, trying to catch up. But we never missed a holiday together—not once.
"You’re all set." Livana hugged tight. "I’m so happy for you and Damien. I’m glad that song didn’t go to waste after all."
I grinned. "You knew, didn’t you? That we’d end up together."
"Of course," she said lightly, brushing a strand of glittered hair from my face. "All it needed was a little push. A little calculation."
I scoffed. "The best part was pranking him, though. I didn’t an for it to get so dramatic, but the way he panicked..." I laughed softly at the mory.
"After this, you two can disappear wherever you want for a while," Livana murmured. "Two, three months away from the company—I can manage that. Deanne’s here too."
"Aren’t you going overseas soon? etings, politicians, all that?" I asked Deanne.
"I need a break from the endless flights. Besides, Livana and I need to lay low after... everything. Our enemies are closer than we think." Her tone was sharp, asured—like every word had been planned.
"She also needs a safe pregnancy," Sophia added, cutting in with a playful lilt. "Grandma Olivia’s insisting you stay in the mansion where your mom grew up."
"Nah. I won’t stay there. That evil witch still visits." I scoffed, aning my mother’s half-sister—now our stepmother.
"Relax. You won’t be living with them. Grandpa Olivia will stay with you at Mom’s mansion."
I nodded, feeling the weight of past and present swirl together.
"Now," I said, flashing them my brightest grin, "let’s go make this party legendary."
–Tyrona–
We had planned it down to the last detail: crash that wedding, rain snakes from the chopper, send their little fairytale screaming into chaos. It should have been beautiful—deliciously catastrophic. Instead, we landed in a venue stripped bare of people. Empty tables. Cold champagne. Mocking silence.
I shot a sharp glare at Carrie, who was already fumbling with her phone, desperate to reach her mother. Pathetic.
"Seriously, Carrie?" I snapped, my voice slicing through the quiet like a blade.
"Tyrona, it’s not my fault they planned three different venues. We’ve been trying to track them all day!"
Excuses. That’s all I ever got from her. We had combed through three other locations, each one a decoy, each one buzzing with so irrelevant event. My patience was fraying. If Livana had truly managed to slither away with Damon, then I would not—could not—allow her sister to bask in the perfect wedding she dread of. Not while I breathed.
The sky had already turned indigo, and we were no closer to finding them. By the ti we finally dragged ourselves back to my villa, the air reeked of failure. Carrie was still dialing, still clinging to whatever thread of maternal influence she thought would save her.
"This was a complete disaster, Carrie," I hissed, my words venomous as I turned on her.
She spun on her heel, irritation flashing in her eyes. "I wasn’t even invited to that wedding, Tyrona! What did you expect to do? You’re the one with more people, more power, more... everything."
I pressed my fingertips to my temple, feeling the beginnings of a headache coil behind my eyes. The stress was clawing at —days of plotting, wasted.
"Tyrona," Carrie’s tone softened as she reached for . "You look pale." She tugged toward the velvet sofa and barked at the maids, "Water, now!"
I sank back, the cushions swallowing . Weakness was unbecoming, but there it was—pressing at my skin, tugging at my breath.
"Forget the wedding," Carrie muttered, dropping into the chair across from . "It’s done. Let it go. You can’t ruin sothing that’s already finished. Rest. Regain your strength."
"Stop lecturing ," I hissed again, though softer this ti as a crystal glass of water was placed in my hand. I sipped, willing the burn in my chest to fade.
Then her phone chid.
Her eyes widened. Too much. I snatched it before she could even speak.
There it was—plastered all over the web: Damien and Laura’s wedding. Labeled "the most intimate wedding of the season." Date-stamped: yesterday.
Yesterday?
"What?" My voice tore out of , sharp enough to crack glass. "What do you an it happened yesterday?"
I stared at the screen, bile rising. The venue, the vows, the flowers—it had all unfolded without a whisper reaching .
I had calculated everything—every possible route, every likely day, every plausible distraction. So where, where, did my precision falter?
My hands trembled, not with fear, but with fury.
"I swore I had this perfect," I murmured, a cold smile twitching at the edge of my lips. "This isn’t over."
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