After He Let His Sister Ruin My Dress, I Jailed Them

1: 1

Valentine's Day was the seven-year anniversary of my relationship with my boyfriend, Gavin Fox, and the day we'd decided to get married.

I'd paid my own way through every couture bridal house in the country.

And every single time I tried a gown on, Gavin's foster sister, Marcella Henson, would snatch it away and ruin it on the spot, always with some excuse about wanting to try it herself, or the dress being so pretty she just had to get a closer look.

I bore it, over and over, only because I couldn't bring myself to throw away seven years with Gavin.

"Karrie, Marci has severe depression. She can't take the slightest stress. I'll make sure she never sets foot in another bridal shop. Once we're married, I'll give you half my life."

I'd been indulging it for seven years.

But today, Marcella came bursting out again and, so-called by accident, slashed through the limited-edition gown I'd spent two weeks begging to get, using the scissors she carried on her.

This time, all at once, I didn't want to indulge it anymore.

By reflex, Gavin jumped in to cover for her.

"Karen Sanchez, Marci's been sickly and frail since she was little. This one's on me, I wasn't watching. But she only wanted to borrow the dress for a bit of fun. You're the bride-to-be, and you'd really be this vicious, hound her to death?"

"Gavin, I understand her, really. It's my fault—"

"Sweetheart, don't be so understanding, Marci. You got sick in the first place because you're always thinking of everyone else."

Watching this pair of devoted "siblings" in front of me, I laughed.

"Fine. You want this gown, the only one of its kind in the world, then consider it a gift. Just remember to pay the thirty million it cost."

1

At the words thirty million, Gavin froze. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

"Karen, has wanting money finally driven you out of your mind? Thirty million? For a dress?"

"Like I don't know exactly where you come from and what you're worth?"

He walked over and patted my head. "No fever. And here I thought you'd been running a temperature these past couple days, cooked your brain soft—"

I knocked his hand away and just looked at him, quiet.

Off to the side, Marcella covered her mouth and giggled, then came over cooing to loop her arm through Gavin's.

"Gavin, maybe Karen just wants to marry you so badly she made up some sky-high number on purpose."

"Karen, I know you won't even spring for a cab most days. Even if this dress is a knockoff, three thousand should cover it, right?"

"Don't worry, Karen, I'll pay you back. Just stop trying to con Gavin with a number like thirty million."

As she spoke, she pulled a wad of cash from her limited-edition Hermès bag and, oops, tossed it, hitting me square in the forehead so a lump swelled up on the spot.

"Oh no, sorry, Karen, I didn't have a good grip. I really didn't mean to."

Looking at the red bills scattered across the floor, all I felt was how absurd it was.

Won't even spring for a cab?

Yes. I wouldn't.

For seven years, to protect what little pride Gavin had.

I'd hidden the fact that I was the sole heir to the Sanchez Group, the richest family in Chicago.

I'd crammed into a hundred-square-foot basement with him and eaten dollar-store instant noodles.

When he had no capital in the early days of his startup, I secretly sold off the estate my grandfather left me and backstopped him under the name of an anonymous investor.

When he complained about the spoiled, arrogant rich girls at work, I taught myself to cook for him, made myself the sweetest, most attentive support at his side.

I thought giving everything, holding nothing back, would win me his heart.

But the first twenty million he ever earned, he turned around and spent on a big penthouse downtown for his foster sister, Marcella.

Marcella wanted a limited-edition bag, he swiped the card without a blink.

All in the name of curing Marcella's "severe depression."

While I only had to glance one second too long at a gown in a shop window before he scolded me for being "vain."

"Karen, we're still in the growth stage of the business. Can't you be a little sensible and stop fixating on all this useless stuff?"

That was his line, always on his tongue.

And all my tolerance and giving ground bought me was their endless pushing for more.

"Three thousand?"

I gave a cold little laugh, then pulled the gold-embossed limited-edition receipt straight out of my bag and threw it against Gavin's chest.

"Open your eyes and look carefully. That's the personal signature of a top French luxury designer, and proof of purchase."

"The hem of this gown was hand-sewn with two thousand genuine South African diamonds."

Gavin caught the receipt, and when he saw the figure on it and the exclusive seal, his face changed hard.

But he steadied himself again fast, crushed the receipt into a ball, and hurled it back at me.

"Enough! Karen, how long are you going to keep making a scene!"

"You think faking some receipt is going to fool me? I'm telling you, my patience has a limit!"

At that, Marcella started to sob, the same trick she always used, and every single time Gavin fell for it.

"I'm sorry, Gavin. It looks like you two are fighting because of me again. I'll leave right now—"

Marcella made a show of walking off, and Gavin quickly pulled her into his arms, then turned and glared at me, hard.

"Today, you're going to get on your knees and apologize to Marci, and you're going to settle her down! Otherwise, forget the wedding! And you can get out of our marriage home right now!"

Marriage home?

That secondhand little building whose down payment I'd covered for him with money I'd passed off as "lottery winnings"?

Looking at this man I'd loved for seven years, I felt a sudden wave of nausea in my stomach.

I looked at him calmly, not a ripple in my voice.

"Whatever."