Trash Groom, Stolen Gown

After returning from studying abroad, I prepared to honor my childhood betrothal. But on the very day I went to pick up my wedding gown, I saw my million-dollar couture dress worn by a poverty-stricken girl whom my fiancé had been secretly supporting.

When I demanded the gown back, I was scolded as a homewrecker and mocked as a loveless hag. My fiancé excused her, saying the girl had never seen the world, and I should be more accommodating.

Well, I've always loved charity. If giving away a million-dollar dress counts as charity, then fine—I'll even let go of the engagement, too.

But let it be known: not just anyone can be engaged to the Vance heiress.

"Where did this poor nobody come from? How dare you touch my wedding dress?!"

The wedding was just days away. I had come to the boutique to see my custom-made gown.

But the moment I laid hands on it, I was slapped hard across the face.

The dress was ripped from my grasp. The scattered crystals cut my fingers, sending a sharp pain shooting up my arm.

I frowned. "Who are you? This is my wedding dress!"

She slapped me again, shouting, "You wretched little—! You've dirtied my dress! You're going to pay for it! Do you even know how expensive this is? They'd have to sell you just to cover it!"

I froze.

At that moment, the boutique manager hurried over, bowing apologetically to the woman.

"Miss Huxley, I'm terribly sorry. Our new employee didn't recognize your dress and gave it to someone else by mistake."

Miss Huxley, meanwhile, was bawling into her phone, presumably to her husband or fiancé.

"Honey, my dress was ruined by some poor woman! What do I do?

"But Honey, you had it custom-made just for me!"

The call was on speaker, and the voice on the other end was chillingly familiar.

"Don't worry, we can fix the stains. A few adjustments and it'll still fit. Just don't cry yourself sick over it."

I recognized that voice. It was my fiancé, Alistair Huxley.

I had already heard rumors that, while I was studying abroad, Alistair had taken a new woman into his life. I had asked him repeatedly, and he denied it every time, insisting he had never been with anyone else. I even asked his parents, who dismissed the gossip as nonsense—just publicity stunts from starlets trying to ride on his family name.

The marriage between the Vance and Huxley families had been arranged years ago, waiting for my return from overseas to finalize. My mother had even commissioned a world-class designer to tailor my gown.

Yet now, the dress in front of me was clearly not mine.

I had noticed the sizing was off the moment I picked it up, and before I could negotiate, this feisty Miss Huxley had slapped me.

She continued to wail, while the boutique manager panicked, dripping sweat, and the employee who had given her the dress kept apologizing nonstop.

The manager, afraid of offending the woman, roughly dragged me aside—and even kicked me in the leg while doing so.

In my heels, I was already off balance. With the kick, I stumbled and fell to the floor, utterly humiliated.

"You shameless wretch! How dare you touch Mr. Huxley's fiancée's dress? Kneel and apologize, now!"

"Shut up," I snapped coldly. "The marriage between the Vance and Huxley families is all over the news. She's clearly not the Vance heiress!"

Her face darkened instantly. In a blind fury, she stepped forward and planted her heel on my leg.

"Vance heiress? That hag doesn't deserve Alistair! He raised me, and he promised he'd marry me!"