My Groom Was With My Sister On Our Wedding Day — So I Married His Worst Enemy

Part 1

I stood in the dim servants’ corridor, the heavy silk of my wedding gown dragging against the uneven floorboards.

My breath felt trapped behind the rigid whalebone of my corset, making every inhale a struggle.

Downstairs, the string quartet was already playing my bridal waltz, the cheerful notes mocking the silence of the hallway.

Through the cracked glass of the conservatory door, I watched my groom.

Brian was not adjusting his tie or pacing nervously.

His hands were bunched firmly into the emerald velvet of my sister’s bridesmaid gown.

Brenda had complained of a severe headache all morning, actively avoiding the chaotic bridal preparations in my suite.

Now, her hands were tangled in his hair, her mouth pressed eagerly against his neck.

Betrayal did not taste like ash or fire.

It tasted exactly like the metallic tang of an accidentally bitten lip.

I leaned my shoulder against the cold plaster wall, seeking a small anchor of reality in a house that suddenly felt entirely alien.

Upstairs, two hundred guests were drinking warm champagne and waiting for a ceremony that would never happen.

The bishop was standing at the altar, checking his pocket watch.

The caterers were hovering over trays of rapidly greasing hors d’oeuvres.

All my life, I had been told that a woman scorned wept and screamed.

I expected a dramatic collapse, a torrent of hot tears ruining my imported French lace.

Instead, my hands were simply freezing, and my dominant emotion was a profound, suffocating irritation.

I reached up and began pulling the pearl pins from my elaborate updo.

They fell to the wooden floor with tiny, sharp clicks, rolling away into the dark corners.

Brian looked up, his face flushed and his eyes wide with the sloppy panic of a man caught in his own mediocrity.

A thin string of saliva connected his lower lip to his teeth.

He opened his mouth, stumbling backward, trying to form an excuse.

I did not wait to hear the lie.

I turned on my heel and walked away, letting the heavy mahogany door click shut behind me.

The diamond ring on my left hand suddenly felt ostentatious and ridiculous.

I twisted it off my finger, scraping my knuckle until a bright bead of blood welled up against the pale skin.

I dropped the ring into the pocket of an abandoned maid’s apron hanging on a nearby peg.

Let someone else profit from Brian’s abysmal taste in jewelry.

Walking back into that ballroom meant total ruin.

A jilted bride was a tragedy, but a runaway bride was a scandal that would have my father disowning me by dinner.

The society matrons would chew my name to a pulp over their afternoon tea.

I would be exiled to the countryside to embroider cushions until I died of sheer boredom.

Unless I chose a different path.

A thought clawed its way up from the darkest, pettiest corner of my mind.

Brian’s family derived all their wealth from an expansive shipping empire that dominated the eastern ports.

But there was only one man in the city who controlled the western routes.

He had spent the last decade systematically dismantling Brian’s trade empire, ship by ship, contract by contract.

Craig, the city’s most feared industrialist.

Polite society called him a monster, a moniker that always made me roll my eyes.

He was simply a ruthless businessman who preferred the stench of the docks to the perfume of the ballroom.

My father despised him, and Brian was absolutely terrified of him.

I gathered the massive, heavy skirts of my dress, bunching the expensive lace into my fists.

I hoisted the tulle above my ankles and began walking toward the kitchen exit.

I did not want a quiet retreat to the countryside.

I wanted a declaration of absolute war.

A fine, misty drizzle began the moment I stepped out the back door, clinging to my eyelashes and ruining the starched crispness of my bodice.

I found a hackney cab idling at the end of the alley, the horse looking as miserable as I felt.

The driver, a hunched man smoking a foul-smelling pipe, barely glanced at me as I shoved a gold coin into his palm.

I gave him Craig’s address, my voice sounding raspy, as if I hadn’t spoken in days.

The carriage smelled of wet wool, stale beer, and old leather.

I sat stiffly on the cracked vinyl seat, refusing to lean back and let the adrenaline fade.

Every jolt over the cobblestones rattled my teeth, leaving behind a cold, hollow sensation in my stomach.

I was a respectable woman, educated in French and watercolors, hurtling toward the estate of a man known for ruining lives before breakfast.

The carriage lurched to a halt before an imposing, blocky fortress of dark stone.

It was devoid of climbing ivy or decorative gardens, designed strictly for business and impenetrable to aesthetics.

I stepped out into the freezing mud.

The white silk slippers my mother had custom-ordered sank immediately into the muck, the icy water seeping through the thin soles.

I marched up the stone steps, dragging the heavy, sodden weight of my ruined wedding dress behind me.

The heavy brass knocker echoed like a gunshot, and when the door opened, I stood dripping in mud and lace, ready to offer the devil a monopoly.