My Best Friend Ran Away On Her Wedding Day—So The Billionaire Groom Forced Me To Take Her Place
Part 2
The morning sun hit the penthouse windows with a cold, unforgiving glare.
I woke up on the living room sofa, my limbs stiff and my neck aching.
The designer throw blanket I had grabbed hadn’t done much against the central air chill.
I had barely managed to finish my first cup of black coffee when he appeared.
Craig looked immaculate, wearing a crisp, tailored suit that probably cost more than my car.
The only flaw was the dark purple bruise on his jaw where Dan had struck him.
The fragile silence between us didn’t last more than a minute.
He immediately launched into a sharp critique about the tiny apartment I rented back in London.
I slammed my coffee cup down onto the glass table.
“Unlike you, I didn’t get a job as a birthright inheritance,” I spat out.
“I worked hard for everything I have, without stepping on people to get ahead.”
Craig let out a harsh, abrasive laugh that echoed in the cavernous room.
“Well, fortunately for you, you won’t have to work so hard anymore,” he mocked.
“From now on, you’ll be better known as my wife than an untalented actress.”
The insult hit my chest like a physical blow.
He paced the room, his eyes scanning me like I was a failing balance sheet.
“Let’s be honest, Megan, your career is a complete joke.”
“Without this marriage, you’d be back in a closet-sized apartment by next year.”
Furious and suffocating, I fled the penthouse to find some scrap of normalcy.
I went to visit Brian, my former co-star, hoping for a friendly face.
Instead, a half-dressed blonde opened his door and mistook me for a hired call girl.
The humiliation sat like a stone in my stomach as I sat across from Brian at his kitchen table.
He brushed off my concerns about his reckless lifestyle, hiding his own heartbreak behind a smug grin.
Returning to the penthouse hours later felt like walking back into a war zone.
I retreated to my designated dressing room, desperate to regain some control.
I reached for my favorite yellow silk dress, slipping it over my head.
As I turned toward the mirror to check the fit, a strange metallic scent caught my attention.
Smeared across the back of the pristine yellow fabric was a massive, vivid ink stain.
I ripped the dressing room door open, my face burning with absolute rage.
Craig was leaning casually against the hallway wall, checking his gold watch.
“Are you running out of clothes already?” he asked, his voice dripping with fake concern.
“This is the most childish revenge I have ever seen,” I yelled.
“You announced a press conference without asking me,” he countered, stepping closer.
“You think you’re the only one who can play games?”
He tapped the face of his watch, completely unbothered by my fury.
“Go find something else to wear, we’re already late.”
Thirty minutes later, we pulled up to the venue.
The street was a sea of absolute chaos, swarming with aggressive reporters.
“What are we going to do?”
My voice trembled slightly as genuine panic finally set in.
Craig stepped out, opening my door and offering his hand.
The second my feet hit the pavement, his hand settled firmly on my lower back.
As the cameras flashed against the glass, I looked at the man holding my hand and wondered—was he trying to protect me, or was this just the beginning of my destruction?
