Chapter 3

The ceremony, which had been a looming disaster, was suddenly back on track, albeit with a completely new script. The original plans, the vows I had written for Olivia, the music she had chosen-it was all useless now.

Chloe was a natural. She mingled with my family during the brief intermission, charming my stunned mother and impressing my skeptical father with a quick, witty comment about the stock market. The awkward atmosphere slowly began to dissolve under the force of her personality.

Soon, it was time for the exchanging of the rings. My best man, Tom, shuffled his feet awkwardly. He knew the rings he held were meant for Olivia. They were a custom design I had spent months on, a delicate band with an inscription only she would understand. The thought of putting it on Chloe's finger felt wrong, a final, bitter reminder of my failure.

I prepared myself to use a simple placeholder, maybe Tom' s own ring, just to get through the ceremony.

But as the priest asked for the rings, Chloe's assistant, Mia, stepped forward. She presented the priest with a velvet box. It wasn't the box I recognized.

The priest opened it. Inside, nestled on white satin, were two rings. They were not the ones I had commissioned. These were different. Bolder. The man's ring was a solid, platinum band, modern and substantial. The woman's ring was exquisite, a large, flawless diamond surrounded by a halo of smaller stones, catching the light and scattering it in a thousand tiny rainbows.

A wave of murmurs went through the guests.

"My God, look at that diamond!" someone whispered loudly.

"It must be ten carats!" another hissed.

"It's a hundred times more beautiful than the one Olivia was showing off on her Instagram," a cousin of mine commented, not bothering to lower her voice. The comment was mean, but it sent a small, sharp thrill of satisfaction through me.

I looked at Chloe. She just gave me a small, almost imperceptible nod. She had thought of everything.

We exchanged the rings. The metal was cool and heavy on my finger. It felt real. Too real. For a moment, standing there in front of everyone, with this brilliant, formidable woman, the line between performance and reality blurred. I felt a flicker of something I couldn't name-a mixture of gratitude, admiration, and a strange, unsettling... connection.

"You may now kiss the bride!" the priest declared, beaming as if this was the most romantic wedding he had ever officiated.

The guests erupted in cheers and applause. "Kiss her! Kiss her!"

This was it. The ultimate performance. I turned to Chloe, my mind racing. A quick, chaste peck on the lips. That would be enough.

But Chloe, as always, was one step ahead.

She looped her arms around my neck, pulled me down, and kissed me. It wasn't a chaste peck. It was a deep, confident kiss that left me breathless and stunned. It was for the cameras, for the audience, but for a split second, it felt intensely personal. When she pulled away, her lips were curved into a triumphant smirk. The crowd went wild.

After the ceremony, during the reception, a group of my mother's friends, emboldened by champagne, cornered us.

"The bridal suite at this hotel is legendary," one of them, a notorious gossip named Beatrice, said. "You must give us a tour!"

I froze. The suite. It was filled with Olivia's things. Her clothes, her makeup, a ridiculous number of frilly pillows she insisted on. The walls were probably still covered in the photos of us I had put up as a romantic surprise. The thought of taking these women, of taking Chloe, into that shrine to my failed relationship was mortifying.

"Oh, I don't know," I began, trying to find a polite excuse. "We're a bit tired..."

"Nonsense!" Beatrice chirped. "We insist!"

Before I could protest further, Chloe stepped in, linking her arm through mine. "We'd be delighted to show you," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "I'm quite proud of how it turned out."

I shot her a panicked look. What was she doing?

She squeezed my arm gently, a silent command to trust her. I had no choice but to follow as she led the small, chattering group toward the elevators. The entire way up, my stomach was in knots. I was bracing myself for the ultimate humiliation.

Chloe swiped the key card and pushed the door open. "Welcome," she said with a grand gesture.

I steeled myself and looked inside. And then I stopped breathing.

It wasn't the room I had left this morning. It was completely transformed.

Olivia's things were gone. The frilly pillows were replaced with elegant, charcoal grey and silver cushions. The air smelled not of Olivia's floral perfume, but of something clean and fresh, like sandalwood and bergamot.

The entire suite was filled with red roses. Hundreds of them. They were in massive bouquets on the tables, in a trail of petals on the floor leading to the bedroom, and even artfully arranged on the massive king-sized bed.

My personal belongings were still there-my watch on the nightstand, my book on the table-but they were arranged differently, with a kind of deliberate, masculine elegance. On the wall where my photos with Olivia had been, there was now a single, large, abstract painting in bold strokes of red and black. It was powerful and captivating.

The women gasped.

"Oh, Chloe, it's the most romantic room I've ever seen!"

"And all these roses! Ethan, you sly dog!"

I stared at Chloe, completely bewildered. How? How was this possible? She had only had a few hours.

She leaned in, whispering in my ear. "Money and a very, very good assistant can accomplish anything, Ethan. Remember that."

I looked at her, at the confident smile on her face, at the calculating glint in her eyes. I had married a force of nature.