"Emily, darling, are you going to come out and show us, or keep that masterpiece all to yourself?"
The voice of Ryan’s sister, Claire, broke through the memory. Emily took a final sip of her champagne, plastered onher most radiant, winning smile, and stepped out from behind the velvet curtain into the center of the private showroom.
A collective gasp echoed in the room.
Ryan’s mother, seated on a plush ivory sofa, pressed a hand to her pearls. Beside her, Claire was bouncing six-month-old Charles on her lap. Her three carefully selected bridesmaids—women she had befriended specifically for their social standing—beamed with envy.
"Oh, Emily," her mother-in-law breathed, her eyes shining. "It is absolutely exquisite. You look like royalty."
"Thank you, Elizabeth," Emily beamed, twirling slightly to let the train fan out. She looked at her son, who babbled happily in his aunt's arms. "I just want Ryan to be proud when I walk down that aisle."
"He’s already a very lucky man," Claire smiled, lifting a crystal flute. "To the future Mrs. Sinclair!"
"To the bride!" the women echoed, their champagne glasses clinking in a chorus of wealth and privilege. They spent the next hour talking about floral arrangements, the five-star hotel catering menu, and the endless, exhausting details of a high-society wedding.
When they finally left the boutique, stepping out into the crisp afternoon air, the group exchanged air-kisses and parted ways.
The moment their luxury SUVs pulled away from the curb, Emily’s radiant, attentive smile instantly dropped. Her jaw ached from faking it. She turned to the young woman standing quietly behind her, holding the baby and the diaper bag.
"Take Charles home," Emily instructed the nanny, waving a dismissive hand. "I need an afternoon to myself to decompress. Make sure he's fed before Ryan gets back."
"Yes, Ms. Bennett," the nanny nodded, securing the baby in the back of the town car.
Emily turned and walked toward the high-end, multi-level shopping pavilion down the street. She wanted to walk around, look in the luxury windows, and just enjoy the intoxicating feeling of having absolutely no budget.
She was admiring a display of designer handbags when she saw him.
He was carrying a massive stack of oversized shoe boxes out from a stockroom, wearing a cheap, ill-fitting polo shirt with the logo of a mid-tier department store. His face was gaunt, his hair was unkempt, and there were dark, exhausted bags under his eyes.
Harrison.
Emily paused, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her lips. It was almost too perfect. She couldn't resist.
She walked into the store, her designer heels clicking sharply against the tile. She stopped right in front of him just as he set the boxes down.
Harrison looked up. He froze, the color draining entirely from his pale face.
"Hello, Harry," Emily purred. "Working hard?"
Harrison swallowed, his jaw clenching. He looked like he wanted to scream, but he was trapped in his uniform, trapped in his miserable reality. "What do you want, Emily?"
"Nothing at all," she said breezily. She reached up to push a stray lock of hair behind her ear, making sure her left hand flashed directly in his line of sight. The massive, flawless diamond caught the harsh fluorescent lights of the store, throwing prisms of light across the walls.
Harrison’s eyes dropped to the ring. He stared at it, the last remaining shred of his pride visibly crumbling.
"Just doing some wedding shopping," Emily continued, twisting the knife. "It’s going to be the event of the season. I'd invite you, but... well, I don't think you own a tuxedo anymore. Keep up the good work, Harry."
She turned on her heel and walked out, her heart soaring with malicious glee. She had won. She had absolutely, unequivocally won.
Emily returned to the sprawling, multi-million-dollar Sinclair estate an hour later, floating on a cloud of retail therapy and petty vindication.
She walked through the grand foyer, dropping her shopping bags on the marble floor. The house was entirely silent. The nanny and Charles must have been in the nursery wing.
She walked down the long, carpeted hallway toward Ryan’s home office to tell him about the dress. As she got closer, she noticed the heavy oak door was slightly ajar.
And then, she heard it.
A low, breathy moan. Followed by a wet, rhythmic slapping sound, and a deep, masculine groan that she recognized instantly.
