Chapter 1

The woman in the vanity mirror possessed the beauty of a mannequin in a display window—exquisitely adorned, yet hollow.

The custom-made mermaid silhouette wedding dress constricted my ribs, making it nearly impossible to breathe. That familiar sensation of asphyxiation was identical to what I had felt in my previous life, moments before death, pinned inside a crumpled vehicle with my lungs crushed.

I was surrounded by a cacophony of praise. The stylist complimented the sheen of my flaxen hair; the bridesmaids marveled at my "luck" in marrying into one of Manhattan's top dynasties. But I heard none of it. My ears were filled only with the screech of tires on slick pavement and the memory of that Christmas Eve blizzard—the goosefeather snow that had eventually buried me.

I lifted a hand, fingertips grazing my cheek.

It was warm.

Inside my chest, my heart beat with heavy, powerful strokes.

"Emily, are you ready? The priest is waiting."

The voice was sweet, intimate, and wrapped in a sickeningly sweet, overpowering scent of violets.

I saw Lillian in the mirror's reflection.

She wore a pale lilac bridesmaid gown, her makeup applied with even more calculation than mine. At this moment, she was leaning forward slightly, holding a crystal flute filled with deep ruby Napa Valley Cabernet, walking toward me with a smile like a blooming flower.

Memory, like a thawing glacial river, came rushing back with a roar.

In my previous life, the next three minutes had defined my ruin.

She would pretend to trip over my trailing hem, and that glass of expensive red wine would "accidentally" splash all over my six-figure wedding dress. Then, amidst panicked apologies, she would solicitously escort me to the bridal suite in the church's side wing to change into a spare gown.

Lying in wait in that room, beneath the holy icons, were two gossip columnists from the *New York Post* and a yacht club waiter who had been drugged into a stupor.

That was her wedding gift to me—total disgrace, reducing me to a laughingstock across the entire East Coast high society.

"Emily?" Seeing I didn't respond, a flicker of doubt crossed Lillian's eyes, but her high heels continued their steady click-clack forward. "Have a sip. It'll calm your nerves; I can see your fingers trembling."

She was close.

One step. Two steps.

A tenth of a second before she leaned forward to execute her "accidental" fall, I turned abruptly.

My movement was electric, too fast for her to adjust her center of gravity or her expression. I seized the slender wrist holding the wine glass, my face instantly breaking into a smile far more dazzling and impeccable than hers.

"Dearest Lillian, why are your hands so cold?"

My voice was soft, feigning concern, but the fingers clamping down on her wrist bones tightened like a steel vice.

"Ah—!" Lillian gasped in pain, instinctively trying to pull back.

Now.

I didn't dodge backward. Instead, I used the momentum of her struggle to lunge forward, while my other hand delivered a shove to her back—seemingly light, but delivered with ruthless precision.

*CRASH—!!!*

The deafening sound of shattering crystal instantly drowned out the string quartet playing in the side hall of St. John the Divine.

It wasn't just a glass that broke.

It was Lillian herself, whom I had precisely "escorted" into the six-tier champagne tower standing beside us.

Hundreds of crystalline Riedel flutes collapsed and imploded. Pale gold Dom Pérignon mixed with razor-sharp glass shards, cascading over Lillian like a small waterfall. She screamed as she fell into the wreckage, her lavender couture gown instantly soaked. Blood from glass cuts began to bloom rapidly on her bare arms and calves. She looked as wretched as a stray cat abandoned in a storm.

Dead silence.

All the guests—surnames like Vanderbilt, Rockefeller, Carnegie, the politicians and socialites—froze as if someone had hit pause, their faces locked in shock and disbelief.

Standing before the altar in his bespoke suit, Lucas—my extraordinarily handsome fiancé, known as the "Golden Boy of Wall Street"—saw his perfect smile shatter, replaced by pure shock. He didn't even glance at me. Without hesitation, he charged into the ruins of champagne and glass, bending anxiously to help Lillian.

"Lillian! Are you alright?" Lucas's voice was filled with undisguised heartache and panic. He moved gingerly, avoiding the shards, trying to lift her.

Lillian, soaked to the bone, curled trembling into Lucas's arms, blood and champagne dripping onto the church's ancient stone floor. She lifted a tear-stained face—a masterclass in acting; I almost applauded—and looked at me, her voice aggrieved and broken: "Emily... I know you have someone else in your heart and didn't want to marry Lucas... but why would you do this to me? I only... I only wanted to offer you a blessing before the wedding..."

A beautiful counterattack.

The surrounding whispers amplified instantly. Countless eyes focused on me like searchlights, filled with scrutiny, speculation, and disdain. My father, Richard Winslow, sat in the place of honor in the front row, his face as dark as a sea before a storm, fists clenched, looking ready to charge up and defend the family honor he felt I was tarnishing.

I stood on the steps leading to the altar, looking down from my vantage point at the "star-crossed lovers" embracing tightly before the holy sanctuary.

Then, I turned slightly and picked up the standing microphone prepared for the speeches. I flicked the mic with my fingernail, sending a harsh *buzz* through the speakers that made everyone wince.

"Distinguished guests, I am terribly sorry that this sacred ceremony has been interrupted by such a discordant interlude."

My voice, carried by the church's excellent sound system, reached every corner. Calm, steady, laced with a trace of barely perceptible mockery.

"It seems that my dearest best friend, Miss Lillian, has had a rather too violent emotional reaction to the fact that I am about to marry Mr. Lucas Harrington. In order to help her—and all of you present—see certain facts more clearly, I have decided—"

I paused deliberately, my gaze like an ice pick, locking onto Lucas's blue eyes, which were now filled with panic and rage.

"To unilaterally terminate this wedding."