The grass was still wet with Victoria’s tears when the horrific reality struck Adrian. He stumbled backward from the flower arch, staring at the woman he had nearly made his wife. *His sister.*
The two hundred guests erupted into a chaotic frenzy of gasps, hushed screams, and frantically dialed cell phones.
But as Victoria wept into the torn tulle of the wedding gown, praising God for a miracle, Emma’s trembling shoulders suddenly stilled.
The bride’s tear-streaked face hardened. Her sobbing stopped dead.
Hidden from the panicked crowd, Emma leaned in and pressed her lips to Victoria’s ear.
“I know,” Emma whispered, her voice entirely stripped of its fragile innocence. “I’ve known exactly who I am for six years. Ever since the woman who raised me made her deathbed confession.”
Victoria froze, her breath catching as she pulled back just enough to see the ice-cold calculation in her long-lost daughter’s eyes.
“She told me how my father—your beloved, late husband—paid her to take me away,” Emma continued, her voice a velvet blade. “He couldn’t stand the thought of a daughter diluting his precious male heir’s inheritance. So he erased me to make room for Adrian.”
Adrian dropped his boutonniere, his face ashen. “Emma… what are you saying?”
Emma stood up gracefully, brushing the dirt from her knees. The silver starfish gleamed against her collarbone. She wasn’t a desperate girl trying to marry into a dynasty. She was the rightful Ashford firstborn, returning to detonate the family from the inside out.
“I didn’t date you for love, Adrian,” Emma announced, her voice echoing over the stunned, silent lawn. “I just needed a front-row seat to my own homecoming.”
She turned to the trembling priest. “Cancel the marriage certificate. And call the police. I want my inheritance back.”