Mafia Princess Reclaimed Her Throne at Her Wedding

Liora’s POV

The curtain yanked open. Evan stood there. I was still up on the platform. Viola was on the floor, curled like a fainting damsel. Not moving.

He rushed to her side, arms cradling her like she might break in two. Then he looked up at me, jaw clenched. “What did I tell you the other day? If you keep acting like a drama queen, I won’t marry you!”

I almost laughed. Such a cheap little act—and he’d bought it wholesale.

“Then don’t,” I said.

His face shifted. Like he couldn’t quite process what I’d just said.

“Liora, how many times do I have to tell you? You have no one but me. And you still act like this? I swear, I won’t tolerate it for one more day.”

Viola whimpered softly from his chest, like a Disney character in distress. “I think… I think I twisted my ankle.”

Evan’s eyes snapped down to her, rage barely contained. Then back to me. “Go think about what you’ve done. I want your head clear before the wedding. Or don’t come at all. I’ll have the ceremony with Viola and you and I can just do the marriage license at City Hall.”

He looked so confident. So sure I’d cave. That I’d come crawling, desperate not to lose him.

After all, I’d loved him—hadn’t I? How could I possibly survive watching him walk down the aisle with someone else?

The truth? That would’ve been a dream scenario.

Actually, even better than my original plan. If I didn’t have to go to the wedding at all, I wouldn’t just be saving myself the trouble—I’d be getting a front-row seat to Evan’s spectacular downfall.

I stared at him. “Are you sure?”

He didn’t answer—just let out a noise and swept Viola into his arms. She looked over his shoulder at me, smiling like she’d just claimed some grand prize.

I almost pitied her. Really. How sad it must be, to treat a man like Evan as if he were treasure instead of trash.

…

The wedding day arrived.

Since the day Evan and I last spoke, he hadn’t reached out. Not once.

Instead, it was Viola who showed up—sweeping into the bridal suite like she owned the place, surrounded by a full glam team of stylists and makeup artists.

“Liora, you wouldn’t mind if they did my hair and makeup first, right?” she asked, already sitting in front of the mirror, her tone dripping with arrogance.

I smiled faintly. Since I was about to deliver the biggest surprise of her life, I saw no reason to argue. “Of course not.”

She smirked, satisfied, and said nothing more.

While her team fussed over her hair and lashes, I sat quietly in the corner, reviewing the plan in my head one last time. My heart wasn’t nervous—it was steady, sharp, deliberate. Every detail was ready.

By the time Viola finished preening, there were maybe ten minutes left for me. Typical.

When I pulled out my dress, her eyes immediately narrowed.

“That’s not the one I picked for you.”

It wasn’t. The one she’d chosen was hideous—an insult disguised as satin.

This one, though… plain white, soft, elegant. It wasn’t bridal, not really. But it was perfect.

A gift from Tristan, delivered the night before with a note that said: You’d look stunning in this.

And since I was planning to elope with him today, it felt only fitting to wear it.

“Oh, that one got wrinkled,” I said lightly, holding the new dress up. “Figured I’d use this instead.”

She studied it for a moment. Then, apparently deciding it was too simple to matter, she shrugged. “Whatever. Let’s go.”

She grabbed my arm and led me out, insisting we walk down the aisle together—like two queens sharing a throne that clearly belonged to only one.

Just as we were about to step forward, a sudden stir rippled through the crowd. People were turning, whispering.

My first thought was Tristan.

Was he here? If he was late, I might’ve actually had to face Evan—and that would’ve ruined the poetry of this entire plan.

“Liora?”

I turned.

And there he was—Tristan, walking through the crowd in a sharp white suit embroidered with floral details that matched the pattern on my dress.

The room collectively gasped.

“What’s going on?”

“Why do their clothes match?”

“Isn’t that Tristan Vexley? I saw him once at the Southern mafia gathering—”

“He looks incredible.”

“If I didn’t know today was Evan’s wedding, I’d think he was the groom.”

“Shh! Don’t let Evan hear you say that!”

Tristan smiled as he approached, calm and impossibly composed. “You do look stunning in this dress,” he said softly.

“You have perfect taste.” I smiled back.

“The dress or the woman?” he teased, extending his hand.

“Both,” I said, slipping my palm into his.

The moment his fingers brushed mine, a sharp tug yanked me backward.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Evan’s voice cut through the murmurs like a blade. He strode forward, grabbing my other hand with iron force. His face was furious, red, almost shaking.

“You’d better explain this right now, Liora. Because if you don’t—” his voice dropped— “you know how bad it gets when I’m angry.”

I just laughed. A quiet, genuine laugh.

Then I pulled my hand from his grip. “Can’t you figure it out by now?”

His eyes flicked down to where my fingers were entwined with Tristan’s. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“I’m leaving you, Evan.”

I raised my hand—the one Tristan was holding—and let our joined fingers catch the light. “Meet my real fiancé. My soon-to-be husband, Tristan Vexley.”

The crowd gasped again. A wave of whispers swept through the room.

Evan’s face hardened into something murderous. “Repeat that again,”