He snatched the shard of glass from my hand and tied me up.
Tristram locked me in the basement of the villa.
"Didn't you want a wedding? Fine. I'll give you one. The ceremony goes ahead the day after tomorrow."
I lay on the damp, cold mattress in the basement and let out a bitter laugh.
Calling off the wedding was because of Sandra. Going through with it was also because of Sandra.
When Tristram had turned on me, I'd wanted to ask him what the last five years meant to him.
Now I understood. There had never been anything between us at all.
Two days later, Tristram had me brought out.
The basement was damp and filthy. The wounds on my body had festered, the skin around them red and swollen with infection.
At the wedding, Sandra wore a designer gown worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. I wore a hospital gown.
Sandra, Rodney, and the groomsmen stood on the stage. I stood in the corner by the door, like a thief peering in at someone else's happiness.
Tristram had his people watch me closely, yet he never once looked my way.
Not until the photos appeared on the massive screen—the ones from the bridal suite days earlier, showing Tristram on his knees before Sandra.
His gaze, sharp as a blade, cut to me.
"What the hell? Is this real?"
"Tristram James? Isn't that the younger sister's fiancé?"
In the time it took the crowd to exchange a few shocked whispers, Sandra had already crumpled to the floor in tears.
"Angie is the only outsider who knew about this. Who could have done it..."
"It couldn't have been Angie... Even if she resented us, even if she was jealous that Tristram loves me, she couldn't be cruel enough to do something like this..."
Every sentence insisted it couldn't have been me. Every sentence pointed straight at me.
Tristram walked over. In front of every guest in that hall, he slapped me across the face.
I was burning with fever from the infected wounds. The blow knocked me flat to the ground.
The guests, seeing it turn physical, scrambled for excuses to leave, terrified of getting dragged into the mess. The hall that had been buzzing with noise a second ago emptied out in an instant.
Tristram's hand closed around my throat and hauled me off the floor. "Angelica Sullivan. I really underestimated you."
He waved his free hand. "Book every billboard screen in the Capital. Put her photos out there. Every last one."
"Don't, Tristram, please." Sandra's voice trembled with tears, but the triumph and provocation on her face were impossible to hide. "Angie is my sister. Our parents taught me to always give in to her, and I'm used to it by now. Don't make things hard for her."
"As for you—" Tristram's expression darkened to something terrifying.
"It wasn't me... It wasn't—"
I tried to deny it. Each time I opened my mouth, his fingers tightened another fraction around my throat.
Suffocation swallowed me whole. Only when I was down to my very last breath did he let go.
"You destroyed Sandra's reputation. Tell me—how should I punish you?"
"Start from the suburbs. Walk a full loop around the Capital with a bullhorn, apologizing to Sandra. Tell everyone the photos were AI fakes. Tell them you did it because you were jealous of her. How does that sound?"
I had no room to fight back. My throat was full of the taste of blood. I couldn't force out a single word.
"The apology tour ends when I decide to take your photos down. Not a second sooner."
With that, two of his assistants grabbed me off the floor and threw me into a car.
Two hours from downtown to the outskirts. They dumped me on a desolate mountain road lined with abandoned factories.
Before they'd dragged me out, I'd been clutching something in my palm the entire time—the honeymoon plane ticket.
From here to the airport was a thirty-minute walk. The departure time on the ticket was thirty minutes away.
Making the decision took me one second.
I didn't dare stop for even a heartbeat. I dropped the bullhorn and ran toward the airport.
Before the plane took off, I sent Tristram one last message.
Tristram, I don't need my name cleared anymore. And I don't need you anymore.
