Affair Ruins Wedding Plan

The morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the exclusive Fifth Avenue bridal boutique as I arrived for my final dress fitting. The anticipation I'd felt all week had pulled me from bed before dawn, eager to see myself in the custom gown I'd spend months designing. In less than forty-eight hours, I would be Mrs. Marcus Kane—the culmination of five years pretending to be someone I wasn't, all for love.

"Ms. Sterling, I—" Madame Beaumont, the boutique's owner, rushed toward me with an expression I'd never seen on her typically composed face. "There's been a... situation."

Something in her voice made my stomach drop. "What kind of situation?"

"Your gown," she said, wringing her hands. "It's not here."

"Not here?" I repeated, my voice unnaturally calm despite the panic rising in my chest. "Where exactly would my two-hundred-thousand-dollar wedding dress be if not here?"

Madame Beaumont's eyes darted to her assistant, who seemed to shrink behind the counter. "Your fiancé's assistant came yesterday. She said Mr. Kane had authorized an emergency loan of the dress for a fashion shoot. Something about Vogue and a last-minute opportunity..."

"Amanda took my wedding dress?" The words felt wrong in my mouth, like biting into something rotten. Marcus's assistant had always been overly familiar with him, her touches lingering a second too long, her smiles holding secrets I pretended not to see.

"She had Mr. Kane's written authorization." Madame Beaumont pulled out her tablet, showing me Marcus's signature on an electronic form. "She assured us it would be back this afternoon, in perfect condition."

I forced myself to breathe. There had to be a reasonable explanation. "Call her. Now."

The video call connected moments later, revealing Amanda's face, perfectly made up despite the early hour. Behind her was the sleek interior of what looked like a Midtown loft—one I didn't recognize.

"Victoria!" Her voice dripped with false warmth. "Madame Beaumont told you about the shoot? It's such an amazing opportunity for your dress to be featured—"

The camera angle widened, and there she stood—in my wedding dress. My custom-designed, hand-beaded wedding dress, with its cathedral train and vintage lace that had taken artisans months to create.

"What are you doing?" My voice was barely a whisper.

"The magazine needed a model right away, and I'm the only one who fits the sample size." She twirled, the dress—my dress—flowing around her. "Marcus thought it was brilliant. Free publicity, he said."

The boutique fell silent. I could feel Madame Beaumont's pitying gaze on my back as I ended the call without another word.

* * *

I spent the day in a fog, replaying Amanda's smug face in my mind. By evening, I'd convinced myself I was overreacting. Marcus always said I was too sensitive, too dramatic. Perhaps this was normal in the fashion world he frequented—a world I'd deliberately kept myself from fully entering to maintain my cover as the struggling designer he believed me to be.

Our penthouse was aglow with the golden light of sunset when I finally confronted him, the Manhattan skyline a glittering backdrop through the dining room's glass walls.

"You let Amanda wear my wedding dress?" I asked as he poured himself a scotch, not bothering to offer me one.

"It's just a dress, Victoria." He didn't even look up. "The magazine spread will be worth ten times what we paid for it."

"It's not just a dress. It's my wedding dress." I fought to keep my voice steady. "How would you feel if I let someone else wear your custom Tom Ford suit before our wedding?"

He laughed, the sound sharp and dismissive. "Don't be dramatic. It's a disposable thing you wear once. Amanda needed it for the shoot, and it made sense."

"Disposable?" The word hit me like a slap. "That dress cost two hundred thousand dollars."

"Which is nothing." He waved his hand dismissively. "You're making a scene over something trivial. This is business, Victoria. You wouldn't understand."

I stared at him, truly seeing him perhaps for the first time in five years. The man I'd diminished myself for, hidden my wealth and name for, believing he needed to feel like my provider—he thought my feelings were trivial. My wedding dress was disposable. I was disposable.

"I need some air," I managed to say, grabbing my coat and keys.

I fled to my secret sanctuary—a downtown loft I'd kept as my private art studio, a place Marcus had never seen. It was the one space where I could be fully myself, surrounded by the paintings and designs that reflected my true identity as Victoria Sterling, not the struggling artist I pretended to be.

My phone pinged with an email notification as I collapsed onto the studio's leather sofa. Unknown sender. I opened it without thinking, and my world shattered completely.

There on my screen were videos—explicit, undeniable evidence of Marcus and Amanda together. In hotel rooms. In his office. In our home. The timestamps showed months of betrayal, the most recent from just two days ago.

I watched, unable to look away, as the man I was about to marry revealed exactly how disposable I truly was to him.