Trapped in my Sister's Wedding Vows

"That isn't me," Mireya whispered again, fragile as glass under Ronan's stare.

He said nothing.

The office felt suffocating. Silence stretched, broken only by the faint hum of Ashcroft Holdings' corporate floors far below. He watched her, predator still, unreadable, his dark eyes slicing through her composure.

"Look carefully," he said at last, voice calm, dangerous.

He rotated the tablet, zooming in on the still from security footage. The figure wore a pale coat, nearly identical to Mireya's. Posture, height, hairstyle, it mirrored her perfectly. Grainy glitch aside, the resemblance was terrifying.

Mireya's fingers trembled.

"I've never been near her car," she insisted. "Ronan, I swear to you."

He studied her face, measuring each flicker of emotion.

"You expect me to believe someone who looks exactly like my wife is involved in my sister-in-law's disappearance?" he asked coldly.

"I expect you to believe me," she said, voice cracking. "I don't know who it is."

Ronan placed the tablet on his desk.

"You were called by the police."

"Yes."

"And?"

"They found fabric from one of my label's designs in Arabella's car."

His jaw tightened slightly.

"Convenient," he murmured.

"You think I would hurt my own sister?"

"I think," he said evenly, "people are capable of far worse than they admit."

The words landed heavier than she expected.

Mr. Calder entered, tension etched into his usually composed features.

"Sir, the detective unit has requested Mrs. Ashcroft for questioning. A warrant is prepared if she refuses."

"She won't refuse," Ronan said calmly, gaze fixed on Mireya.

"You believe I'm innocent... don't you?" she asked, desperate.

"I believe," he said slowly, "the truth will surface."

It was no comfort. Only judgment waiting to strike.

Metropolitan Investigation Unit

The interrogation room smelled of disinfectant and stale coffee. Harsh light fell across the metal table. Mireya's hands clasped tightly in her lap to hide their trembling.

Detective Hargrove flipped through a thick file.

"The fabric sample came from your latest couture collection," he said.

"That collection hasn't launched publicly," she replied. "Only my team and private clients have access."

"So your designs are exclusive?"

"Yes."

"Meaning whoever left that fabric had direct access to your studio."

Mireya swallowed. "My staff would never..."

"You'd be surprised how loyalty collapses under pressure," Hargrove interrupted. He slid photos across the table: Arabella's car, blood smeared on leather, torn fabric lodged deep inside the hinge.

"Do you recognize this coat design?" he asked.

Her voice was barely audible. "Yes."

"Who owns it?"

"Custom tailored... for a private client."

Hargrove leaned forward. "Name?"

Mireya hesitated. Fear curled in her stomach.

"...Arabella requested it," she whispered.

"Your sister ordered a coat from your label that matches the fabric in her own car?"

"Yes... but I never finished delivering it. She picked it up herself during a private fitting weeks ago."

"Who else attended?"

"My assistant coordinated it, one seamstress for final adjustments."

"Names?"

She provided them quietly.

Hargrove nodded. "For now, you're not under arrest but officially a person of interest."

The words cut deep.

Ashcroft Conglomerate – Executive Lounge

Ronan stared at the city lights as dusk fell, reflection sharp and ruthless.

Harrison placed a file on the table.

"Background checks on Mireya's design staff," Mr. Calder said.

"Anything?" Ronan asked.

"Nothing suspicious yet. But..." Harrison hesitated.

Ronan's gaze shifted.

"The Sutton family's finances show unusual transfers three months ago," Calder said. "Large payments through shell companies tied to political donors. Arabella managed those accounts before disappearing."

Silence stretched.

Calder slid a photo across the table: Mireya leaving her studio late at night, laughing with someone whose gloved hand rested lightly on her shoulder. Security cameras had caught this figure repeatedly, always avoiding facial recognition.

Ronan's expression darkened. "Find them."

Sutton Mansion – Private Study

Mrs. Sutton pressed her lips tight.

"Mireya has always been fragile," she said dismissively. "Perhaps this pressure will break her enough to divert attention from us."

"You're willing to sacrifice one daughter to protect our image?" Mr. Sutton asked.

Mrs. Sutton didn't answer. Silence spoke.

Ashcroft Penthouse – Night

Mireya returned exhausted. Hours of questioning had drained her.

Ronan stood by the fireplace, shadows flickering across his face.

"You're home late," he said.

"They questioned me for hours."

"Did you lie?"

"No."

"Are you lying to me?"

The question cut like a blade.

"I'm terrified," she admitted, voice shaking, "but I am not guilty."

Ronan studied her hands, something soft almost flickering in his gaze before disappearing.

"If you're innocent," he murmured, "someone is deliberately framing you. In my world, people don't attack directly. They destroy what you love first."

He tilted her chin, forcing her to meet his piercing gaze.

Mireya's heartbeat thundered. "Do you think Arabella was the target... or me?"

Ronan's silence was worse than any answer.

Later, she sat alone, replaying the interrogation, Ronan's warning echoing: someone was destroying what she loved.

A sudden disturbance downstairs: voices, sharp, urgent.

She stepped into the hallway as Mr. Calder moved briskly past her door.

"Mr. Calder?"

"Best remain inside your room," he said without turning fully.

"What happened?"

Ronan's voice cut from below, cold and commanding.

"Bring her in."

Ignoring Calder's subtle block, Mireya descended the stairs. Two guards forced a trembling woman through the penthouse entrance.

Designer coat torn, mascara smeared, sobs uncontrolled.

Mireya froze. Lila Moreno. Senior seamstress at her studio for three years, involved in Arabella's wedding gown fittings.

The guards pushed Lila to her knees.

"Madam... please..."

Mireya's heart twisted. "Why is she here?"

Ronan stepped forward, looming.

"She attempted to board a private flight out tonight," he said calmly.

Lila shook. "I didn't mean... I only copied measurements..."

"Who hired you?" Ronan asked, voice quiet but lethal.

"I... I can't say," she whispered.

"They threatened to kill her!" Lila cried suddenly.

"Kill who?" Mireya demanded.

"Your sister," Lila whispered, broken.

The words shattered her.

Ronan's gaze shifted to Mireya, lethal now.

"How much do you know about Arabella's disappearance?" he asked.

"I told you everything," Mireya said, barely steady.

"If Arabella is alive," he said coldly, "whoever did this has declared war on my household."

Lila sobbed harder.

Ronan nodded sharply. "Take her downstairs. I want every name she remembers before sunrise."

Mireya remained frozen, mind spinning. Arabella might still be alive. But someone wanted her dead. And Ronan Ashcroft had just stepped into the fight.