My Fiancée, Another’s Bride

While I was undergoing advanced training at the Federal Intelligence Division, I suddenly received a strange phone call.

The caller claimed to be my high school classmate and wanted to invite me to his wedding.

Because of my special identity, I was trying to think of an excuse to refuse when he directly sent me a wedding invitation.

“Come on, Ethan Brooks, I know you’re not doing well financially. Don’t worry about the wedding gift.”

“After all, I’m marrying none other than Isabella Reed, the famous heiress of Los Angeles. I don’t need your little contribution.”

By the end of his words, he was laughing out loud through the phone.

“If you behave well at the wedding, maybe I can even arrange a driver’s job for you. That would be a lot better than doing odd work outside.”

Staring at the photo of the couple holding hands tightly, I reluctantly asked my superior for leave.

After all, I was really curious to see just how many husbands this so-called heiress actually had.

I had been specially recruited into the Federal Intelligence Division right after college and secretly trained.

Because of the sensitive nature of the work, I had signed a ten-year confidentiality agreement.

About a year ago, my mother, worried about my lack of interest in women, arranged a marriage for me.

The woman’s family ran a modest trading company in town.

With my support, in less than six months, that small company had transformed into what is now a Fortune 500 company.

As fate would have it, the bride my old classmate was about to marry turned out to be my fiancée—Isabella Reed.

After requesting leave, I immediately dialed her number.

“I’m busy, say what you need to say quickly.”

Her voice on the line was filled with impatience.

“Miss Reed, I heard you’re getting married?”

Before I could finish, the line went dead with a busy tone.

I froze.

Was this the kind of attitude all rich daughters had?

When I tried to call again, I found she had already blocked my number.

I immediately reported the situation to my superior.

Because of my classified status, I couldn’t fly, so he even lent me his Presidential State Car (Cadillac One, ‘The Beast’) for the trip.

On the way, I lost count of how many red lights I ran and how many tickets I racked up, but I finally made it before the wedding began.

I had to admit, Los Angeles had developed impressively over the years.

Every car at the wedding venue was worth hundreds of thousands.

The bridal convoy consisted entirely of Maybachs, led by a customized Rolls-Royce.

As soon as I arrived, a group of former classmates swarmed over.

“Well, if it isn’t our old class president. Look at you now—what a pitiful sight.”

“Seriously, still driving a domestic car? That’s embarrassing.”

“I thought he’d turned out to be someone impressive, but it seems he’s nothing special after all.”

Faced with their mocking, I only smiled faintly.

Walking into the wedding hall, my eyes instantly fell on the man holding flowers on stage—it was my old high school rival, Daniel Carter.

The moment he saw me, he strutted over arrogantly.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Ethan. I only invited you out of courtesy as an old classmate, but I didn’t expect you to actually come.”

“Trouble is, it looks like there’s no place here for you.”

He laughed wildly after speaking.

I only glanced at him for a moment before scanning the crowd, searching for the bride.

“Daniel, I’m not here for you today.”