“Whitley, if anything happens to her, you’ll have to answer for it.” Yosef’s voice was ice-edged, his face a study in seething darkness as he cradled Yara in his arms and stormed away from my office.

I stood there, dazed, his cutting words looping endlessly in my mind. That face—so furious, so pitiless—it was a version of him I hardly recognized.

How bitterly ironic that once, he’d sworn love eternal, vowing seas could dry and mountains crumble before he’d betray me. Now, all those promises twisted into one cruel question: When had he stopped loving me? And why had I been so blind?

I stayed suspended in that hollow emptiness until Cherry stepped in, breaking the spell. She asked if I was all right, her voice soft with worry. I forced a smile, brushing it off. No man—not even Yosef—was worth this kind of sorrow. Gathering the tattered edges of my resolve, I buried myself in work, determined not to let heartbreak own me.

By late morning, my phone buzzed. Xyla’s name flashed on the screen. Without hesitation, I rejected the call. Seconds passed. The phone rang again.

This time, my father.

A jolt of unease shot through me. Had Yara’s condition worsened? Was she... gone?

I hesitated, my thumb hovering. After a beat, I picked up.

The moment I placed the phone against my ear, his voice erupted, a thunderclap that ricocheted through my skull.

“Whitley! Have you lost your goddamn mind? Yara’s already frail, and you go and shove her, knock her to the ground—like some savage?”

I winced, holding the phone away until his tirade subsided. When the storm abated, I said, calm and flat, “There’s a security camera in my office. You can review the footage yourself.”

Not that it would matter. Evidence meant nothing to them; the blame would stick to me regardless.

Predictably, my father sneered, dismissive. “What difference does the truth make here? What matters is your sister’s dying! And instead of showing an ounce of compassion, you act like this?”

No point arguing. It would only waste breath.

When I didn’t respond, he lowered his voice—well, relatively—though the acid lingered. “Enough. Let’s move on. Yara wants you to be her officiant for the wedding. Same day, same place. You’ve got no other plans, right? Just do this for her.”

I laughed, sharp and humorless. “You really trust me to not ruin her wedding?”

His pause lasted long enough to sour the air between us. “You want your mother’s shares in the company, don’t you? Be her officiant. Do it properly, no theatrics, and I’ll transfer her full share to you.”

I froze, disbelieving.

My mother’s shares—pieces of the empire she’d built—were something I’d spent years pressing for, never gaining an inch. And now he was offering them up. Just like that?

Suspicion unfurled, sharp as smoke. “Transfer half up front,” I said coolly, “and the other half after the ceremony’s done.”

“…Fine,” he said at last, grudging and tight. He couldn’t resist one more barb, though: “You take after your mother. Greedy. Always wanting more.”

“And you,” I shot back, unflinching, “take after no one. Because, clearly, you’re a man without a scrap of loyalty in your veins.”

Yara’s tumble had worsened her already fragile health. By the day of her wedding, she could only manage to stand and walk with visible strain, her movements delicate and unsteady.

The wedding gown, once stitched together by my hands, had been crafted to flatter my measurements. Yara, now sickly and emaciated, swam in it. The bodice gaped loose at her chest; the tailored lines sagged around her narrow waist.

“Well,” Xyla sniffed, her expression pinched as she fussed with the ill-fitting fabric, “so much for Whitley’s ‘expert tailoring.’ All those international accolades and awards, and she can’t even make a dress that fits.”

I arched a brow, my retort smooth and venomous. “It would fit just fine if it were on the right person. But I suppose thieves can’t be choosers.”

“You—”

“Mom.” Yara’s paper-thin voice intervened, plaintive. She clutched Xyla’s sleeve, shaking her head softly. “Don’t blame her. It doesn’t matter if it’s a little big—makes it easier to put on and take off, that’s all.”

She turned to me then, her lips curving in a soft, feigned smile. “Thank you, Whitley. It means so much that you’re letting this happen. You’ve made my dream come true.”

The urge to retch clawed up my throat. Her voice, her careful sweetness—it sounded suspiciously like triumph. I spun on my heel, desperate for air.

As fate would have it, danger was waiting at the door. Yosef appeared, cutting an elegant figure in a suit tailored to within an inch of perfection. It was one of my designs, sleek and understated in a way that spoke wealth louder than opulence ever could. He looked radiant in it, sublime, and achingly distant.

And, somehow, more of an insult to me than ever.

“Whitley—” He said my name softly, the unspoken apology coating his tone like frost.

I didn’t reply. My eyes rolled heavenward as I sidestepped him, determined to walk past, but my father’s voice anchored me with a terse order:

“Where are you going? The wedding’s starting. Yara’s too weak—help her down the aisle.”

I stopped mid-stride, disbelief flashing through me. “You want me to escort her?”

“Of course,” Xyla said sharply, her tone laced with entitlement. “You’re her sister, her officiant. What’s the problem?”

Anger churned in my gut. Before I could fire back, Yosef spoke up, his audacity unearthing a new dimension of rage. “Whitley,” he began, unaffected by the blaze in my eyes, “you know she hasn’t fully recovered. The dress is heavy, the train alone—”

Whatever he was going to say next got swallowed by my exit, my patience burned to ash. Within seconds, I was standing in front of Yara again.

Her arm extended with aristocratic authority, as if she were a queen and I some lowly chambermaid obligated to lift her train. “Thank you, sister,” she murmured as I took her arm reluctantly, her saccharine tone sharper than blades.

Enjoy it while it lasts, I thought bitterly, the venom barely contained. How long could she cling to Yosef’s devotion, eclipsed as she was by illness? Death attending her every step like a silent bridesmaid...

The ceremony began.

The soaring swell of wedding music filled the golden expanse of the grand ballroom. Its towering arches and resplendent chandeliers glimmered in the flood of light, but in that moment, I felt as though the full, oppressive weight of the room was pressing against my chest.

All eyes turned to me as I escorted Yara down the aisle. Or rather, turned to us—both wearing dresses meant for someone else, both locked in a tableau that invited whispers to rise like the tide.

“What’s going on? Isn’t the bride supposed to be Ms. Jackson? Why is her sister in a wedding gown?”

“She’s the maid of honor... isn’t she?”

“It’s like something out of a parody. Just look at them—they’ve turned the family name into a scandal.”

Every word lanced through me, humiliating, maddening, but I endured the walk. Step by painful step, hand on Yara’s arm, until we reached the altar and Yosef’s open, eager hands.

The fool’s face gleamed with something close to reverence—ridiculous, desperate hope that sold the lie masterfully. He couldn’t tear his attention away from Yara, his every gesture, every look declaring her the center of his universe.

The ache swelled inside me, bitter and raw. My stomach churned with the poisonous realization: Yosef wasn’t acting. Despite all his claimed intentions, all his rationalizations... he didn’t love me. He had never stopped loving her.

Tears blurred my vision, but I let autopilot guide me, placing Yara’s hand in his. I pulled away without a word and sank into a front-row seat, telling myself to watch with numb indifference.

It was a futile lie.

Beside me, a hand—large, steady, and strikingly clean—extended quietly, offering a handkerchief. I accepted it without looking up, whispering a hoarse, “Thank you.”

The voice that responded was melodic and chillingly deliberate, cutting through the noise. “Do not thank me, Miss Jackson,” it said, steel-like in its clarity. “If a man cannot hold on to you... it is not your loss, but his.”