Introduction

Ellie Vance.

The name spoke volumes: old New England money, Ivy League polish, groomed to be the perfect partner for Governor Will Harrison III.

Our wedding plans filled a thick binder, a union of legacy and ambition, celebrated by all.

Then came the Kentucky Derby.

Will, usually so focused on image, became captivated by Tiffany Rourke, a brash, loud Texas oil heiress-everything I wasn't.

A week later, he uttered the chilling words: "I've fallen for Tiff.

You're perfect, on paper."

He casually suggested I accept a "lesser role" or a quiet end to our engagement, a public demotion unthinkable for a Vance woman.

My family's dignity, my very identity, felt assaulted.

The heirloom diamond on my finger, once a symbol of promise, now felt tainted and heavy.

"You're always so sensible, Ellie.

You'll see this is for the best," he'd dismissed, as if my life, our shared future, was a minor inconvenience.

A cold, burning contempt replaced my shock.

Vances are not "options."

We are not "second best."

Who did he think I was?

A drop of blood bloomed on my pristine wedding binder, a final, painful mark.

And a cold resolve set in.

My path was clear: I would not just survive this humiliation; I would redefine what winning truly meant.

My first call was to Will's mother, Catherine Harrison.

Get ready, Washington.