Chapter 3

The days following my declaration were filled with a constant barrage of ridicule from my family.

"Has your penniless hero come to claim you yet, Chloe?" Emily would taunt me at breakfast.

"I gave you a chance to have a good life," my stepmother would say, her voice cold as ice. "When you come crawling back from the gutter, don't expect any sympathy from me."

They went ahead with their plans for Emily and Mark. The engagement was announced, a lavish party was thrown, and the city's elite fawned over the happy couple. I was a ghost in my own home, a cautionary tale they whispered about behind their hands.

I didn't care. I calmly rebuffed every attempt to force me back into the Wilson marriage. I repeated my intention with quiet, unshakeable resolve.

"I will marry David," I would say, using his first name as if we were old friends.

This, of course, only fueled their mockery. "David? You don't even know his last name!" Emily shrieked with laughter one afternoon.

The final straw for my stepmother came when the wedding date was set. Emily and Mark were to be married in one of the city's grandest cathedrals, a celebration that would be the talk of the town for years.

In a fit of pique, Mrs. Davis made a final, cruel decision.

"Fine," she hissed, her face contorted with malice. "You want to marry your nobody? You can do it on the same day as your sister. While she is walking down the aisle in a custom gown, you can sneak out the back door. No dress, no guests, no dignity. Let's see how your mysterious 'savior' feels about that."

She wanted to humiliate me. To create a stark, public contrast between the favored daughter and the disgraced one.

Emily was delighted. "Oh, that's a wonderful idea, Mom! A double wedding. One in the spotlight, and one in the shadows. How fitting."

I looked at her, at the cruel, petty joy in her eyes, and I felt nothing but a distant pity.

"I accept," I said simply.

My stepmother was taken aback by my easy compliance. She expected tears, pleading, anger. She didn't understand that I didn't care about a fancy wedding. I had already had one of those in my last life, and it had led me to my grave. All I cared about was survival. All I cared about was my future with the man who had shown me a sliver of kindness.

The day before the wedding, I was confined to my room. Emily's custom-made wedding gown, a confection of silk and lace worth a fortune, was delivered and took center stage in the house. The entire family fussed over it, their excitement palpable.

Then, the trucks arrived.

Not one or two, but a fleet of ten sleek, black armored trucks, the kind used for transporting high-value goods. They pulled up in front of our modest suburban home, creating an immediate spectacle. Neighbors poured out of their houses, whispering and pointing.

Men in crisp black uniforms began to unload crate after crate.

The first was opened, revealing stacks of solid gold bars, gleaming in the afternoon sun.

The next contained deeds to prime real-e-state properties all over the world.

Another held a collection of rare, flawless diamonds that made Emily's engagement ring look like a piece of glass. There were antique vases, priceless works of art, and limited-edition luxury cars that were driven off the trucks and parked along the street, their engines purring.

It was an unbelievable, outrageously extravagant display of wealth. It wasn' t just a dowry; it was a king's ransom.

The crowd of onlookers was buzzing with speculation.

"It must be for the Wilsons!" someone said. "An extra gift for Emily Davis!"

"I knew the Wilsons were rich, but this is on another level!" another voice exclaimed. "Emily is the luckiest girl in the world."

The media, already camped out for the pre-wedding buzz, swarmed the scene, cameras flashing, reporters shouting questions.

The sheer scale of it was breathtaking, and it was all aimed at our front door.