Chapter 3

Archer' s eyes softened as he looked at Amelia. It was a look of genuine tenderness, a look he had never once given Francesca, not even when he proposed.

"You look beautiful, Amelia," he said, his voice a low caress. "More beautiful than anyone here."

Francesca felt a sharp pain in her chest, but she pushed it down, replacing it with cold fury. She walked toward them, her heels clicking loudly on the marble floor.

"Well, well," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "If it isn't the guest of honor. You clean up nicely, Amelia. For a servant's daughter."

The words were cruel, and she knew it. But the sight of them together, looking so much like the perfect couple, had stripped away her composure.

Archer's face hardened, his eyes turning to ice. He looked at Francesca with pure disgust. "Apologize to her. Now."

Amelia tugged on his arm, her eyes filling with tears. "It's alright, Archer. Frankie's just upset. I understand."

She turned to Francesca, a picture of wounded innocence. "We used to be friends, Frankie. Remember when we were little? We shared everything."

"Oh, I remember," Francesca said, her voice dangerously low. "I remember you always wanting what was mine. You even had a nickname for Archer, didn't you? 'Archie.'"

The use of the childish nickname was a deliberate jab. It was a name only Amelia used, a symbol of their secret, shared history.

Francesca saw a flicker of triumph in Amelia's eyes before they filled with tears again.

"You gave me this dress, Archie," Amelia said to him, gently touching the fabric of her gown. "It's my favorite color."

Francesca' s blood ran cold. She recognized the design. It was one of her own, a sketch from her private portfolio. A design she had shown only to Archer.

She remembered Amelia trying to steal her design sketches back in college, claiming they were her own. Francesca had been furious.

"You're a thief, Amelia," Francesca said, her voice shaking with rage. "That design is mine. You stole it, just like you always do."

Amelia gasped and stumbled backward, collapsing into a heap on the floor as if Francesca had struck her. "Frankie, no! Why would you say that?"

She crawled toward Archer, grabbing the hem of his pants. "Archie, help me. She's scaring me."

Archer knelt, his face a mask of fury directed at Francesca. He helped Amelia up, his touch gentle. "It's okay. I'm here."

He looked at Francesca, and his eyes were full of a hatred so profound it felt like a physical blow. "You're unbelievable. You can't stand to see anyone else happy, can you?"

Francesca felt her heart shatter into a million pieces. He didn't believe her. He would never believe her.

Later that evening, she approached him, holding a small, velvet box. It was a peace offering, a desperate, last-ditch effort. Inside was a pair of antique diamond cufflinks she had bought for him.

"Archer," she said softly. "I'm sorry for my behavior earlier."

He took the box without looking at her. He opened it, glanced at the cufflinks, and then walked over to Amelia.

"Here," he said, handing the box to her. "A little something for your father."

He had given her gift, a gift meant for him, to the family of the woman he truly loved. It was a rejection so total, so complete, that she could barely breathe.

"Don't worry, Amelia," he said, turning back to her with a smile. "I'll get you that design studio you've always wanted. Anything you desire."

Francesca watched them, a wave of nausea washing over her. She turned to leave, wanting only to escape their suffocating display of affection.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash. A massive, decorative ice sculpture at the center of the room had become unstable and was toppling over. It was heading straight for where Amelia and Francesca stood.

In a split second, Archer moved. He threw himself in front of Amelia, shielding her with his body as the massive block of ice shattered around them.

He didn't even look at Francesca.

A large shard of ice flew through the air, striking Francesca hard in the side. The force of the impact knocked her off her feet. She cried out in pain as she hit the floor.

Her vision blurred. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was Archer holding a terrified Amelia, whispering words of comfort into her hair, completely oblivious to the fact that his fiancée was bleeding on the floor just a few feet away.

She woke up in a sterile white hospital room. The first thing she saw was Amelia, sitting by her bed, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

"Oh, Frankie, you're awake," Amelia cried, her voice thick with fake concern. "I'm so, so sorry. This is all my fault."

Francesca just stared at her.

"If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have gotten hurt," Amelia continued, her performance flawless.

"You're right," Francesca said, her voice raspy. "It is your fault. You're a curse. Everything bad that has ever happened to me is because of you."

Amelia recoiled, her eyes wide with shock. "Frankie! How can you say that?"

Archer walked in at that moment, his face a thunderous mask. "How can you be so cruel? She's been sitting by your bedside all night, worried sick about you, and this is how you treat her?"

"She's an actress, Archer," Francesca said, looking past him, out the window. "And you're her most devoted fan."

He ignored her words. "You've always been like this. Spoiled, selfish, and cruel."

Francesca turned her head slowly to look at him. "You once swore you would protect me, Archer. Remember that?"