Three days. That’s how close I was to marrying Alistair, the man I’d loved for six years, the man whose life I’d literally saved with my own rare blood. I was just admiring the final pearl on my wedding dress, a gown I’d poured my soul into, when he called.

The wedding? Off. He was marrying my stepsister, Ivy. Her dying wish, he said. Six months to live, maybe less.

The kicker? He’d already taken my wedding dress from my studio for her.

Just like that, six years, countless transfusions, our shared dreams – all tossed aside for the girl who’d made my life a living hell since childhood. He even offered me “compensation,” as if my future had a price tag.

But if Alistair and Ivy thought I’d just crumble, they seriously underestimated me. They wanted my fiancé? Fine. But it would cost them. First, our multi-million-dollar fashion company, Evening Gala – built on my designs, my vision. He signed it over. Then, a cool million for the stolen dress. He paid. Another million for the wedding jewelry they dared to ask me to hand over for Ivy. Cha-ching.

You’d think they’d learn. But no. Their next proposal was the most insulting yet: Alistair actually suggested that I should just wait. That after Ivy’s ‘inevitable’ passing in a few months, he and I could just pick up where we left off, have an even better wedding. Seriously?

Enough was enough. If Ivy wanted to play bride with my life, she was going to get a taste of what happens when you push someone too far. Let's just say her hospital room celebration involved a lot more smoke, water, and screaming than she bargained for, all thanks to a little wedding gift from yours truly.

Now they know I’m not the same Hazel they could walk all over. I’ve got my company, a pile of their cash, and a whole lot of scores to settle. They think this is over? This game of revenge is just getting started. And believe me, I play to win.

The evening rush hour had finally subsided, leaving the streets of the financial district less congested as I made my way to meet Vera and Cora at Blanc, an upscale restaurant with private dining rooms. My body ached from a full day at the studio, hunched over designs for our upcoming collection. The pressure to outdo last season's success weighed heavily on my shoulders.


I smoothed down my navy blue pencil dress as I entered the restaurant's elegant lobby. The maître d' recognized me immediately.


"Ms. Shaw, your friends are waiting in the Iris Room," he informed me with a professional smile.


I followed him through the restaurant's main dining area, past tables of business executives and wealthy couples, to the private section. Before we reached the room, my phone vibrated in my purse. I glanced at the screen and frowned. Aunt Patricia's name flashed across it.


"I need to take this," I told Thomas. "I'll join them in a moment."


Chapter 147 - An Insincere Plea and a Sudden Plot