I expected Yosef to erupt, to accuse me of being outrageous—demanding the impossible. But instead, he hesitated only for a breath. “All right. See you tonight.”

Three years ago, we co-founded a fashion label, W.Y Haute Couture. Today, it’s thriving beyond our wildest dreams.

Back then, Yosef provided the capital, and I created the designs. For me, it was practically effortless—a win without risk.

The company is now worth hundreds of millions, poised to go public. Its financial future is untouchable. And yet, just to be with Yara, Yosef is willing to hand me his stake in the company.

True love, it seems.

I got out of bed and stared at the room, cluttered with wedding decorations. Their gaudy brightness clawed at my eyes until I wanted to torch it all to the ground.

I called in movers and instructed them to pack up every trace of him. Anything in this house tied to a man—I wanted it gone.

For once, I could breathe. Thank God I’d insisted on waiting until the wedding night for any sort of intimacy, or I’d be mourning more than just my pride.

When the house was finally rid of offending remnants, I changed clothes and carefully applied my makeup. I had barely finished when the low rumble of an engine echoed through the courtyard.

Yosef was back.

He wasn’t alone—Quinn Grayson, my almost-mother-in-law, was with him.

Interesting. Insurance, perhaps? Worried her son might leave empty-handed?

“You’re back,” I said, seated on the couch. Cool and composed, I made no effort to stand. A glance at Quinn, a perfunctory greeting: “You came too, Ms. Grayson.”

Quinn’s smile faltered as embarrassment twitched across her face. “You’ve been calling me ‘Mom’ for a while now. What’s with the sudden formality?”

I arched an eyebrow and smiled thinly. “My mother’s been dead for years.”

The implication cut deep. She wasn’t worthy.

Quinn’s face hardened, the blood draining from her expression as if someone had struck her. Yosef wore much the same look, though his was tinged with an anger he tried to swallow. He stepped forward, jaw taut. “Whitley, I’m the one who’s wronged you—don’t take it out on my mother.”

“And who should bear the blame when a child goes astray? The father?”

“Whitley!” Yosef’s voice snapped, his temper flashing as he sought control.

I tilted my head slightly, a flicker of contempt tugging at my lips. Unbothered.

Quinn placed a placating hand on his arm. “No yelling. Let’s settle this like adults.”

Yosef relented, straightening his jacket as he eased into the single armchair across from me. From a slim leather portfolio, he pulled out a stack of papers and slid them across the table.

“As you wanted,” he said, his tone tight. “The company is entirely yours. The engagement is off.”

I reached out for the document, skimming its contents. Every clause that mattered was accounted for.

“Fine,” I said. “But the company’s one thing. My wedding gown is another. If you’re taking that too, you’ll need to pay for it.” I looked up, meeting his disbelieving gaze. My voice was calm, deliberate.

Yosef frowned, evidently unprepared for my mercenary streak. “How much?”

“A bargain, really. One million.”

Quinn gasped. “Whitley, that’s robbery!”

“Ms. Grayson,” I replied coolly, “you seem to be unfamiliar with my standing in the fashion world. Shall I have your son explain my pricing structure?” I leveled a sharp, cutting gaze at her that left no room for argument.

The two exchanged a wince-inducing silence.

“And frankly,” I continued with a shrug, feigned indifference curling my tone, “you don’t have to buy it. But given Yara’s insistence, I doubt Mr. Grayson would blink at the price.”

Yosef froze. My words hit their target. He stared at me, astonishment swirling behind his eyes.

I smirked. Got it in one.

From the moment Yara stepped through the doors of the Jackson family estate, it became a game. Anything I wanted, even if it were nothing but trash, she had to take it from me.

A wedding gown? Easily replaceable, yet Yosef was fixated on mine. Transparent manipulation—not his doing. Hers.

True enough, Yosef let out a sigh of resignation. “Fine. One million.”

Quinn turned on him, exasperated. “Are you insane? Have you lost all sense of money?”

“Mom,” he said, a warning laced in his tone, “stay out of it.”

Ignoring her protests, he turned to face me again. “Yara is too sick to select her jewelry for the wedding. She suggested you might let her have whatever you’d picked out already.”

I wasn’t surprised, not really. I’d been waiting for this. And yet, hearing it said aloud still sent a jagged surge of anger through me.

“Yosef,” I said with mocking gentleness, “if Yara asked for my life, would you hire a hitman to collect it?”

“Whitley!” Yosef’s eyes hardened, but his reply held a defensive note. “Yara isn’t like that. You’ve misunderstood her. She’s seriously ill—there’s no way she can handle these things. And you… you don’t need them anymore.”

I stared at him, the woman he once swore never to betray. Heat bled into my tone as I pressed forward, cutting him down: “Do you even remember what you promised me?”

He’d said I saved his life. That he’d never let me down. That I was the only woman who mattered.

Yosef’s gaze faltered. Guilt crept into his features like a shadow. “I do love you, Whit. I swear I do. But she’s dying—two years younger than you, and her time’s almost up. She's your sister. How could you feel nothing?”

Sister. I thought of all the times Yara shredded my dresses or slipped vile things into my bed, watching as I screamed in terror, her laughter shrill and cruel. And the time that broke her—when I hurled what she’d planted right back at her, chasing her until she tumbled down the stairs.

The price was high. My father and stepmother beat me within an inch of my life. I retaliated by slicing every piece of clothing in their wardrobe into ribbons.

Years of battles with the Jackson family. I took my share of bruises, but so did they. In the end, they always had power. All I had was stubborn defiance.

But Yara? Never. Never could I mourn her loss.

“Gone so soon?” I mused aloud, dripping poison. “Poor thing. She’s so young, so beautiful. I’m sure my stepmother’s heartbroken. Can’t you just picture it?”

They didn’t even hear my cruelty. Instead, they sighed in tandem, falling into shared grief at my words.

“Yes…” Quinn’s voice trembled. Tears beaded, and her breath hitched. “Every child… a piece of the mother’s soul. God, if only I could take her place.”

“Mom, stop—your heart can’t handle this,” Yosef interrupted, glancing at me while edging closer to his mother. “Whit, listen. Once Yara’s gone, I’ll give you the wedding of your dreams. I promise. Just… make this easy on her.”

His audacity stunned me.

“You’re saying,” I choked out, “you’ll marry her first, wait until she dies, then come back and offer me a consolation prize?” A crack of disbelieving laughter escaped. “Me? A Jackson heiress? Reduced to a backup bride? Yosef, do you even hear yourself?”

Of every eligible man in Jaxford City, Yosef thought I’d sit around and wait for my turn?

His face paled as he saw my outrage twist into disgust, but he pressed on, as if sheer sentiment alone would save him. “You’re the only woman I love. Please don’t misunderstand. In my heart, you’re my one true wife.”

The bile rose in my throat.

I grabbed the pen and scrawled my name across the contract. Done.

“You want the jewels too? Fine. Add another million. Wire it to my account, and tomorrow, I’ll personally deliver the set to the hospital. Maybe I’ll even stay to visit my dear sister.”