Chapter 1Not Your Billion Dollar ATM

The officiant—Brock, Garrett’s supposed "best man"—kept intentionally botching my name with every line. He was using the little pet name Garrett had for his college sweetheart.

“My bad, man,” Brock slurred into the microphone, not looking sorry at all. “Your last act was just too memorable. I seriously thought today was going to be her walking down the aisle with you… But hey, the new Mrs. is great too, I guess.”

Garrett didn’t even look annoyed. Instead, a wave of sickening nostalgia washed over his face.

I lifted the edge of my six-figure veil and smiled, a cold, hard thing.

“Don’t worry,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “The Mrs. will make sure you get an unforgettable gift—an exclusive feature on the front page of the city paper's ‘Worst Wedding Nightmares’ section.”

* * *

The spotlights were uncomfortably hot on my face.

I stood at the center of The St. Regis Ballroom, holding a bouquet of rare, six-figure Ecuadorian roses and wearing a custom haute couture gown that took eight hundred atelier hours to stitch.

Brock, Garrett’s so-called ‘iron brother,’ was red-faced and yelling into the mic—drunk or just thrilled by his own audacity. He leaned in conspiratorially toward Garrett, his voice booming through the top-tier sound system into the ears of every single guest.

“Garrett, do you take Sloane Maxwell to be your lawfully wedded wife? For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health…”

The air congealed in that instant.

He hadn’t said Jocelyn.

He had said Sloane.

My practiced, polite smile faltered. The background hum of chatter cut off as if a giant pair of scissors had snipped the sound, only to be immediately replaced by the roaring tide of speculation.

I knew this wasn’t a slip of the tongue.

I turned my head to look at Garrett.

If he frowned right now, if he grabbed the mic and offered even the slightest correction, I could dismiss this as an incredibly crude joke—one I’d make Brock pay dearly for later.

But Garrett did nothing of the sort.

Instead of correcting the man, he looked utterly spellbound by the name. His gaze drifted past me, past the cascading champagne tower, and zeroed in on the sixth table near the back.

That’s where his college friends were seated.

Garrett’s lips curved into a soft, uncontrollable smile, and his eyes held a tenderness and a hint of regret I had never once seen directed at me. It was as if that other name was the key that unlocked his true soul, and I was merely a prop standing by to foot the bill.

“The name is wrong.”

I took the microphone from Brock’s hand. My voice was icy. I needed to salvage my dignity, no matter how much I was internally bleeding.