The glowing screen of my phone blurred. *Run, Elowen.*
Heavy footsteps crunched on the stone steps behind me.
"Wait!" Eira’s voice rang out over the flashing cameras.
I shoved the phone into my jeans pocket. I spun around.
John stood at the top of the cathedral stairs. His broad shoulders blocked the sunlight. Eira clung to his elbow.
"John, please," Eira murmured, her tone heavy with fake sweetness. "What if she’s telling the truth?"
John scoffed. "Look at her, Eira. She’s out of her mind."
"Just humor her," Eira pressed. She stroked his tuxedo sleeve. "Let’s go to her dressing room. If the gown is really destroyed, we’ll know someone set her up."
I needed John’s security team. I needed Marcus to track my family.
"Yes," I blurted out. "Come to the hotel. I’ll show you the shredded silk. I’ll show you the cut ribbons. Then you have to help me find my mother."
John’s jaw clenched. A muscle ticked near his temple.
"Fine," John snapped. "We will go to the suite. And when I find out you are lying, I will ruin you."
The drive back to the Plaza Hotel passed in suffocating silence. John refused to look at me. He kept his gaze pinned to the tinted window of the SUV. Eira sat perfectly straight, a tiny, triumphant smile playing on her glossy lips.
My hands shook in my lap. I just needed him to see the destroyed Vera Wang gown. Then he would understand the sabotage. Then he would mobilize his men.
The elevator dinged at the penthouse level.
I marched down the carpeted hallway. My sneakers made no sound.
"Open it," John ordered, gesturing to the heavy double doors of my suite.
I grabbed the brass handle. I pushed the doors wide open.
"Look at what they did to me, John," I said, stepping inside. "Look at the—"
The words died in my throat.
I froze.
There, standing in the center of the plush suite, was the mannequin.
Draped over its fiberglass curves was my Vera Wang gown.
Pristine. Flawless.
Not a single tear marred the white silk bodice. The tulle skirt puffed out in perfect, untouched layers. The pearls I had kicked across the floor hours ago were meticulously sewn back into the lace hem.
"No," I whispered.
I stumbled forward. I grabbed the fabric, expecting it to fall apart in my hands. It held firm.
The jagged ribbons were gone. The shredded scraps had vanished. The room smelled faintly of lavender room spray, totally undisturbed.
"This isn't right," I stammered, spinning around. "It was in pieces. The entire skirt was slashed to ribbons."
John stepped into the room. The door clicked shut behind him.
His dark eyes dragged over the perfect dress, then snapped to my face. The temperature in the room plummeted.
"A shredded dress," John repeated. His voice was dangerously low.
"Someone swapped it!" I yelled, waving a hand toward the mannequin. "Or they brought a replica! I swear to you, John, the dress I saw this morning was destroyed."
*Smack.*
The sharp crack echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
My head snapped to the side. A blinding sting erupted across my left cheek. I stumbled back, my hip slamming into the edge of a glass vanity table.
I pressed a trembling hand to my face. The skin burned.
John lowered his hand. His chest rose and fell in rapid, furious jerks.
"You lying bitch," John spat.
"John!" Eira gasped. She rushed forward, grabbing his arm again. "Don't hurt her!"
I stared at him, my vision swimming with unshed tears. In five years, he had never raised a voice to me, let alone a hand.
"You hit me," I whispered.
"You dragged my family into a circus," John snarled. He stepped closer, crowding my space. "You made me stand at the altar like a fool. You claimed you were sabotaged."
"I was!" I screamed, pushing off the vanity. "Look at the room! It’s too clean! The scissors Victoria found had my fingerprints because they were my scissors, but I didn't cut anything!"
Eira shook her head. Her blonde hair shifted over her shoulders.
"Elowen, why are you doing this?" Eira asked. Her voice trembled with practiced sorrow. "Why lie about something so easily disproven? The dress is right here."
"You set this up," I accused, pointing a shaking finger at her. "You fixed the room while I was at the church."
"I was at the cathedral the entire morning!" Eira cried, shrinking behind John’s broad frame. "John, tell her. I was with your mother arranging the floral displays."
"Leave Eira out of your psychotic delusions," John commanded.
"She is playing you!" I stepped toward him, desperate to break through his icy exterior. "John, think about it. Why would I show up in jeans if I had a perfect dress sitting right here?"
"Because you are terrified of commitment," John replied coldly. "Because you realized you don't have the class to be a Crawford, and you wanted to play the victim to get out of it."
A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips.
"Class?" I asked. "You think I destroyed my own wedding over class?"
"I think you are sick in the head," John stated.
I dropped my hand from my stinging cheek. The panic from the text message flared back to life, mixing with boiling anger.
"Fine. You don't believe me about the dress?" I challenged. "What about the staff?"
John crossed his arms. "What staff?"
"The stylist. The wardrobe assistants. The driver you hired for me," I listed off rapidly. "None of them showed up this morning. They all vanished."
Eira sighed, a delicate, annoying sound. "Elowen, maybe they just got the schedule wrong."
"All of them?" I snapped. "At the exact same time?"
I turned my focus entirely on John.
"Call them," I demanded.
John raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Call the stylist. Call the driver," I repeated, stepping right into his personal space. "Bring them here right now. Ask them why their phones were disconnected. Ask them who told them to stay away from my suite."
John stared down at me. The absolute disgust in his expression didn't waver.
"You want me to waste more time indulging your lies?" he asked.
"If I am lying, bring them here and let them expose me," I challenged. "Let them look me in the eye and say I told them to leave."
Eira shifted uncomfortably. Her manicured fingers dug slightly into John’s jacket.
"John, maybe we should just go," Eira suggested softly. "She’s clearly unwell. We shouldn't drag the staff into her breakdown."
I caught the tiny flicker of panic in Eira's eyes.
"Bring them," I insisted, locking eyes with John. "Unless you're afraid of what they might actually say."
John pulled his phone from his tuxedo pocket.
"Marcus," John barked into the receiver. "Track down the bridal stylist and the assigned driver. Bring them to the penthouse immediately."
He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the velvet sofa.
"They will be here in five minutes," John said. "And when they confirm you are lying, I will make sure you never work in this city again."
I stood tall, ignoring the throbbing pain in my cheek.
"We'll see," I replied.
A heavy knock hammered against the suite door.
John walked over and yanked it open.
Marcus stood in the hallway. The head of security looked pale.
"Sir," Marcus said, his voice unusually tight. "We have a problem."
"Where is the staff?" John demanded.
Marcus swallowed hard. He glanced past John, his eyes landing directly on me.
"They aren't coming, Mr. Crawford."
"Why not?" John snapped.
"Because," Marcus replied grimly. "The police just found the driver's car at the bottom of the East River."
