My Groom’s Mistress Tried to Burn Me Alive

I stumbled back into the bridal suite, my legs barely supporting me. The tablet with its damning evidence felt heavy in my trembling hands. My reflection in the mirror showed a woman I barely recognized—pale, shaken, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Elyse?" My makeup artist rushed toward me, concern etched across her face. "What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I hadn't seen a ghost. I'd seen something far worse—my future.

"I need to sit down," I whispered, sinking onto the plush chair. My mind raced with the images burned into my memory: Caspian and Reyna together, their secret wedding, his cruel words about my gullibility.

The door burst open, and Caspian strode in, his expression a mixture of concern and irritation. "Elyse, what's going on? Everyone's waiting."

I looked up at him—this man I'd loved for ten years—and saw him clearly for the first time. The slight tightening around his eyes when he was hiding something. The calculated way he took my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles in that practiced gesture of comfort.

"I don't feel well," I said, my voice surprisingly steady despite the storm inside me. "I think... I think I need to postpone."

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Postpone? Elyse, we have two hundred guests downstairs. The caterers, the flowers—"

"I'm sorry," I interrupted, clutching my chest dramatically. "I just... I can't breathe properly. I think I need to see a doctor."

Before he could respond, I let my eyes roll back and slumped forward in the chair. It wasn't hard to fake—the shock of what I'd learned had made me genuinely lightheaded.

"Elyse!" Caspian's voice sharpened with alarm. Hands pressed against my forehead, someone calling for water.

When I came to, I blinked weakly at the concerned faces surrounding me. "I'm so sorry," I whispered. "I don't know what happened."

---

A week later, I sat in the waiting room of Mount Sinai Hospital, flipping through a magazine without seeing the pages. Caspian had insisted on coming with me for my "check-up"—probably worried I'd discover something else about him if left to my own devices.

"I have my physical therapy session now," he said, standing up. "Dr. Voss will see you in a few minutes."

I nodded, watching him walk away—that familiar limp that had once filled me with guilt and gratitude. Now I wondered how much of it was exaggerated for effect.

Instead of waiting, I followed him down the corridor, keeping a safe distance. When he entered a treatment room, I positioned myself near the slightly open door, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Dr. Helena Voss emerged minutes later, leaving the door ajar. I pressed myself against the wall, barely breathing.

Then Reyna slipped into the room.

"She's still playing the fragile bride?" I heard her say, her voice dripping with disdain.

"Unfortunately," Caspian replied, his tone so different from the concerned one he'd used with me. "It's delaying our timeline. We need that trust fund access, Reyn."

I peered through the crack in the door. Caspian pulled Reyna against him, his hands sliding down her back in a gesture of intimate familiarity.

"How much longer do we have to keep up this charade?" Reyna murmured against his neck.

"Just until she turns twenty-eight and gets full control," he said. "Then we'll have everything we need."

Their lips met in a kiss that spoke of long practice—not the restrained affection he showed me in public.

---

"These numbers don't add up," Marcus said, spreading financial statements across his desk. My brother's face was a study in concentration as he reviewed the documents I'd asked him to examine.

"Where exactly is the money going?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

Marcus looked up at me, suspicion evident in his eyes. "You've never shown interest in the family finances before. What's this really about, Elyse?"

I hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "Just... estate planning. With the wedding postponed, I thought I should understand our financial situation better."

He frowned but continued tracing the numbers with his pen. "There are regular transfers—thousands each month—to this company here." He pointed to a name on the statement: "Foster Ventures LLC."

"And who owns that?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Marcus tapped his keyboard, running a quick search. His expression darkened as he turned the screen toward me.

"Registered owner: Reyna Foster. Address: 342 West 57th Street—the penthouse you bought for Caspian."

The confirmation hit me like a physical blow. Not only was Caspian betraying me emotionally, but he was systematically draining my family's wealth through Reyna.

"Are you sure about this?" Marcus asked quietly.

I met his gaze, a new determination hardening within me. "Yes," I said. "And there's more. Much more."