After My Fiancé Cheated, I Married a Billionaire Stranger

I sat on the floor of River's hotel room and stared at the clock. Four-seventeen in the morning. The wedding was in eight hours.

River crouched beside me with a bottle of water I hadn't touched. "Kinslee," she said quietly. "We need to move."

I looked at her. My best friend. My maid of honor. The only person who knew what had happened in that suite—what I'd lost on that floor while Dillon stood in the doorway and watched.

"I'm not canceling," I said.

Her eyes narrowed. "What?"

"The wedding." My voice was flat, empty. "It's going to happen exactly as planned."

River studied my face. Then she nodded once. "Okay. Tell me what you need."

I pulled out my phone. The screen was cracked from where I'd dropped it, but it still worked. I opened my contacts and scrolled past Dillon's name—past all the Snyders—until I found the number I needed.

Jeremiah Cole. My father.

I hadn't called him Dad in five years. Not since I'd left the Cole world behind to build something of my own. To find someone who would love me without knowing who I was.

I'd found Dillon instead.

The phone rang twice. "Kinslee." His voice was alert, immediate. He'd been waiting.

"I need the security team," I said. "And I need access to the venue's technical systems. The livestream stays active. Everything gets recorded."

Silence. Then: "What happened?"

"Later," I said. "Right now, I need you to trust me."

"Always," he said, and hung up.

River was already on her laptop, pulling up the venue's floor plan. "What's the play?"

I told her.

She looked up at me, her expression unreadable. Then she smiled—sharp, cold, and absolutely lethal. "I'm going to enjoy this."

By six a.m., Jeremiah's team was in position. The venue's tech staff—people who answered to my father's money, not the Snyders'—confirmed the livestream would remain live and uninterrupted. Every camera angle. Every microphone. Five hundred guests and thousands of online viewers would see everything.

I showered. The hot water stung the scratches on my neck where Mrs. Snyder's nails had torn skin. I watched the blood swirl down the drain and felt nothing.

River helped me into a simple black dress—not the wedding gown, which hung untouched in its garment bag. I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was pale, my eyes hollow. I looked like a ghost.

Good.

At seven-thirty, someone knocked on the door.

River opened it. Marcus Snyder stood there with his younger brother, both of them in their groomsmen tuxedos. Marcus's smile was ugly.

"Morning, ladies," he said, pushing past River into the room. "Thought we'd check on the bride. Make sure she's being... reasonable."

His brother closed the door behind them. They moved to flank me, their bodies too close, their presence a deliberate threat.

"Dillon wanted us to remind you," Marcus continued, "that if you cause any trouble today—any scene, any drama—there will be consequences. You understand? This wedding is happening. You're going to smile, say your vows, and keep your mouth shut. Got it?"

I looked at him. "Got it," I said softly.

He grinned. "Good girl. See? You can be—"

River moved.

I barely saw it. One moment she was standing by the door, the next Marcus was on the floor, his arm twisted behind his back at an angle that made him scream. His brother lunged forward. River pivoted, drove her elbow into his solar plexus, and he crumpled.

She straightened her dress. Smoothed her hair. Looked down at the two men gasping on the carpet.

"Wrong room," she said, and opened the door.

They crawled out. River closed the door behind them and turned to me. "Feel better?"

"A little," I admitted.

She checked her watch. "We're on schedule. Jeremiah's people have the package ready."

The package. Mrs. Snyder.

At eight-fifteen, a member of the venue staff—one of ours—delivered a glass of champagne to Mrs. Snyder's suite. She drank it without question. Entitled women always did.

Twenty minutes later, she was disoriented, compliant, and confused. River and two security guards entered her room. They dressed her in the wedding gown—my gown, with its elaborate lace and tulle. They secured the veil over her face. She mumbled protests, but her words were slurred, incoherent.

They positioned her in the bridal holding room where the processional would begin.

I watched from the monitor in my suite as they adjusted her train, her veil. She swayed slightly but remained upright.

"Perfect," River said.

I checked the livestream on my phone. It was live. The comments were already rolling in—guests and strangers speculating, excited, waiting for the ceremony to begin.

They had no idea what they were about to see.

I looked at River. "Let's go."

She handed me a tablet. On the screen, I could see the ceremony space filling with guests. Dillon stood at the altar in his tuxedo, laughing with his groomsmen. He looked relaxed. Happy.

He thought he'd won.

I smiled.

"Showtime," I said.