The blood on my fingertips has dried into tiny brown crescents beneath my nails. Three months of hand-stitching will do that to you. Three months of pricking your fingers on needles, of squinting under lamplight until 3 AM, of sacrificing every free moment to create something perfect. And Ethan just walked out the door with it. "I'll be back late tonight, Sky," he'd said, kissing my forehead like I was a child. "The design needs some final touches before I present it to the client. You understand, right? This could make my career." His career. Built on my designs. My hands. My blood. But I smiled. I always smile. "Of course, babe. It's our five-year anniversary, but work comes first." The door clicked shut behind him, and I stood there in our apartment, staring at the empty garment bag hook where my masterpiece had hung for exactly four hours. Four hours since I'd finished the last stitch. Four hours since I'd stepped back and cried because it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever created. Four hours since I'd imagined myself wearing it. Because that's what it was supposed to be. My wedding dress. The one I'd pour my soul into, the one I'd wear when Ethan finally proposed after five years of "not being ready yet." I'd told him it was for a client. A lie. But I wanted to surprise him. Surprise. The word tastes bitter now. My phone buzzes. A text from my best friend, Maya. "Girl, you need to see this. I'm so sorry. Link attached." My hands shake as I click it. It's an Instagram story. Private account. But Maya has her ways. The username is @StardustDreamer. And there, in the photo, is my wedding dress. On another woman. She's stunning. Blonde hair cascading in waves. Perfect smile. Perfect body. The dress fits her like it was made for her. Because apparently, it was. The caption reads: "Can't wait to marry the love of my life! Thank you, E, for this incredible custom gown. You always know exactly what I need. 💕" E. Ethan. My Ethan. The room spins. I sit down hard on our couch—the one we picked out together at IKEA, the one where we'd spent countless nights watching movies, where he'd told me I was his forever. I scroll through her profile. It's private, but Maya sent screenshots. Photo after photo of a life I didn't know existed. Star and Ethan at a beach. His arm around her waist. Star and Ethan at a restaurant. The same restaurant where he told me he had a "work dinner" last month. Star and Ethan kissing under fairy lights. The dates go back two years. Two. Years. My chest feels like it's caving in. I keep scrolling, numb, until I see a photo from eight years ago. Teenage Ethan and teenage Star, holding hands at what looks like a high school dance. The caption: "Throwback to when we promised we'd find our way back to each other. Childhood sweethearts forever. 💫" Posted three years ago. Three years ago, Ethan and I had just moved in together. He'd told me he loved me for the first time. He'd said I was the only woman he'd ever truly loved. All lies. Every single word. I'm not his girlfriend. I'm his cover story. His convenient shield while he built a life with someone else. The wedding dress I bled over, cried over, dreamed over—it was never mine. It was always hers. My phone rings. Ethan. I stare at his name on the screen, and something inside me shifts. The hurt crystallizes into something sharp. Something cold. Something dangerous. I don't answer. Instead, I open my laptop and start digging. If Ethan thinks he can use me and discard me like a rough draft, he's forgotten who taught him everything he knows about design. Who built his portfolio while he partied through college. Who introduced him to every client he has. Who made him. I scroll through Star's photos again, studying every detail, and that's when I see him in the background of one shot. A man in an expensive suit. Dark hair. Sharp jawline. Cold eyes fixed on Star with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. I zoom in on the tagged location. "Ashford Industries Gala." Ashford. I know that name. Everyone in this city knows that name. Julian Ashford. Real estate mogul. Venture capitalist. The man who owns half the skyline and has a reputation for destroying anyone who crosses him. And he's looking at Star like she's something he owns. Or something he lost. I screenshot the image and reverse-search it. The results make my blood run cold—and my smile turn wicked. Because Julian Ashford and Star have history. Messy, complicated, explosive history. And I'm about to make it everyone's problem. My phone buzzes again. Ethan. "Hey babe, gonna be even later. Don't wait up. Love you." I text back: "Love you too. ❤️" Then I open a new message to a number I found in my research. Julian Ashford's private line. The one only his inner circle has. The one I just paid $500 to a very motivated assistant to obtain. I attach every photo. Every receipt. Every piece of evidence of Ethan and Star's relationship. And I type: "Mr. Ashford, I believe we have a mutual problem. Her name is Star. And I have a proposition that will benefit us both." I hit send before I can second-guess myself. Three dots appear immediately. He's typing. My heart hammers against my ribs. The response comes through: "My office. Tomorrow. 9 AM. Come alone." I smile at my phone, and it's not a nice smile. Ethan wanted to make his career on my back? Fine. Let's see how his career survives when his entire world burns down. ---