Chapter 1 1.

Chapter 1: The Perfect Betrayal

The chapel smells like cheap roses and broken dreams.

I stand at the altar in my grandmother's vintage lace dress, bouquet trembling in my hands like a leaf in a storm. The Elvis impersonator—yes, an actual Elvis impersonator—clears his throat and adjusts his rhinestone jumpsuit.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of the King—"

"Not yet," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the tacky organ music. "Please, just... give me a minute."

Elvis nods sympathetically. He's probably seen this before. Vegas weddings don't exactly have the best track record.

Where is Marcus? He should have been here ten minutes ago. My phone buzzes with a text from Violet: Running late! Marcus is with me. Start without us if you want! 💕

Start without them? My maid of honor and my groom? My twin sister and the man I'm about to marry?

"Ma'am?" Elvis leans forward. "You okay, honey? You look a little green around the gills."

I force a smile. "I'm fine. Just... nervous."

But I'm not fine. Something feels wrong. It's been feeling wrong for weeks, actually. Ever since Marcus proposed on that perfect beach in Malibu, with the perfect ring and the perfect sunset. Everything too perfect, too planned, too... calculated.

"Maybe I should go find them," I mutter, hiking up my dress and wobbling toward the chapel's side door on these ridiculous heels Violet insisted I wear.

"You want 'Can't Help Falling in Love' or 'Love Me Tender' when you get back?" Elvis calls after me.

"Surprise me," I call back, pushing through the door that leads to a small preparation room.

That's when I hear it. Violet's laugh. That throaty, sultry laugh she reserves for men she's trying to seduce. My blood turns to ice.

"God, I've missed this," she purrs.

I freeze, my hand on the door handle. Through the crack, I can see them. My sister. My fiancé. Her hands tangled in his dark hair, his hands gripping her waist like she's a lifeline.

"Vi, we can't keep doing this," Marcus whispers against her neck. "She's going to find out."

"No, she won't." Violet's voice is confident, cruel. "Ivy sees what she wants to see. She always has. She thinks she's so smart with her PhD and her research, but she's clueless about people. About us."

The bouquet slips from my numb fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud. White roses and baby's breath scatter across the cheap carpet.

"What if she does find out?" Marcus pulls back, and I can see his face now. The face I've kissed a thousand times, the face I thought I'd wake up next to for the rest of my life.

Violet smirks, adjusting her bridesmaid dress—the same shade of blush pink I agonized over for hours. "Then we'll deal with it. But Marcus, think about what we talked about. The Harper money, the connections. Marry her, and in a few years, we can arrange a quiet divorce. You'll get half of everything, and I'll be there to comfort you through the heartbreak."

My knees nearly give out. The Harper money. Of course. It was never about me. It was never about love.

"And besides," Violet continues, straightening her lipstick in a compact mirror, "once Daddy realizes how perfect we are together, he'll cut her out completely. I've always been his favorite anyway."

"You're terrible," Marcus says, but he's smiling when he says it.

"Terribly irresistible," she corrects, pulling him down for another kiss.

I can't watch anymore. I stumble backward, my heel catching on my dress. The sound makes them break apart.

"What was that?" Violet hisses.

I turn and run.

The Las Vegas heat hits me like a slap as I burst through the chapel's front doors, still in my wedding dress, still wearing the diamond tiara that belonged to my great-grandmother. Tourists stop and stare, phones already out to capture the spectacle of a runaway bride.

I don't care. I can't breathe. I can't think.

Twenty-eight years of being the "other" twin, the smart one, the serious one, the one who didn't quite fit the Harper family mold. And now this. The ultimate proof that I'll never be enough.

My phone rings. Violet's name flashes on the screen.

I decline the call and keep walking, my heels clicking against the sidewalk like a countdown. Click. Click. Click.

The Bellagio towers ahead of me, all golden glass and impossible wealth. I need a drink. I need several drinks.

The casino floor is a maze of slot machines and desperate dreams, but I navigate through it like I'm on autopilot. The bar is dark, expensive, the kind of place where a wedding dress doesn't even rate a second glance.

"Whiskey," I tell the bartender, a woman with purple hair and kind eyes. "The strongest you have."

"Rough day?" she asks, already reaching for the top shelf.

I laugh, but it comes out like a sob. "You could say that."

The whiskey burns going down, but it's a good burn. A cleansing burn.

My phone buzzes again. This time it's Marcus.

Ivy, where are you? We're all worried.

All worried. Right. I'm sure Violet is devastated that her perfect plan is falling apart.

"Another," I tell the bartender.

"You sure, honey? You look like you're about to fall off that stool."

"I'm fine," I insist, even though I'm very clearly not fine. "I'm getting married today. Or I was supposed to. To a man who's been sleeping with my sister."

The bartender—her name tag says 'Raven'—winces. "Ouch. Sister?"

"Twin sister. The perfect twin." I drain the second whiskey. "She's right, you know. I am clueless about people. I spent six years with him. Six years, and I never saw it coming."

"Some people are really good liars," Raven says gently.

"Apparently." I fumble with my purse, trying to find my credit card. My vision is already getting fuzzy around the edges. "Do you know what the worst part is? I actually convinced myself he loved me. Me. The weird, nerdy twin who spends more time with neurons than people."

"Hey." A deep voice beside me cuts through my pity party. "Mind if I sit?"

I turn, expecting to see another tourist or maybe a concerned hotel employee. Instead, I find myself staring into the most unusual eyes I've ever seen. Gray, like storm clouds, but there's something almost... empty about them. Beautiful, but cold.

The man attached to those eyes is tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a suit that probably costs more than my car. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. He looks like he stepped out of a magazine spread titled "Impossibly Attractive Billionaires Who Could Ruin Your Life."

"Do I know you?" I ask, my words slightly slurred.

He slides onto the barstool beside me with fluid grace. "Not yet. But I couldn't help overhearing your... situation."

"My situation?" I laugh bitterly. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Betrayal by a twin sister and cheating fiancé," he says matter-of-factly. "It's more common than you'd think, actually."

Something about his tone makes me look at him more carefully. There's no judgment in his voice, no pity. Just cool assessment, like he's analyzing a business deal.

"Speaking from experience?" I ask.

"In a way." He signals the bartender. "Macallan 25, neat." Then, to me: "And something for the lady. Something that won't leave her with a splitting headache tomorrow."

"I like my splitting headaches, thank you very much," I protest, but Raven is already mixing something that smells like mint and lime.

"Trust me," he says. "You'll thank me later."

"Later? What makes you think there's going to be a later?"

He turns those unsettling gray eyes on me fully. "Because I have a proposition for you."

I nearly choke on my drink. "Excuse me?"

"You want revenge, don't you? Against your sister, against your ex-fiancé. Against everyone who made you feel like the consolation prize."

My blood runs cold. "How do you—"

"I'm very good at reading people," he interrupts. "And right now, you're radiating hurt and fury in equal measure. It's... refreshing, actually."

"Refreshing?" I set down my drink harder than necessary. "My life just imploded, and you find it refreshing?"

"Your life didn't implode," he corrects. "You discovered the truth before making a terrible mistake. There's a difference."

I stare at him. He's right, but something about the way he says it makes my skin prickle with unease.

"What kind of proposition?" I hear myself ask.

A slow smile spreads across his face, and I realize I've made a mistake. This man is dangerous. Beautiful, but dangerous.

"The kind that could give you everything you've ever wanted," he says. "Power. Respect. The ability to make them all pay for underestimating you."

"And what would you get out of it?"

His smile widens. "A wife."

The word hangs in the air between us like a loaded gun.

"I'm sorry, what?" I sputter.

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sleek business card, sliding it across the bar toward me. The name embossed in silver lettering makes my stomach drop: Cassian Wolfe, CEO, Wolfe Industries.

I know that name. Everyone in New York knows that name. Wolfe Industries has been systematically acquiring and dismantling companies for years, earning Cassian Wolfe a reputation as one of the most ruthless businessmen in the country.

"You're insane," I breathe.

"I'm practical," he corrects. "I need a wife for business reasons. You need a way to show your family exactly what they've lost. We could help each other."

"I don't even know you!"

"You didn't really know your fiancé either, apparently."

The truth of that statement hits like a physical blow.

"This is crazy," I say, but I don't get up. I don't walk away. Something about him holds me in place, like gravity.

"Crazy would be going back to that chapel and marrying a man who's been cheating on you with your sister," Cassian says calmly. "This is just... unexpected."

My phone buzzes again. Another text from Marcus, probably. Another lie wrapped up in pretty words and false concern.

"What exactly are you proposing?" I ask.

"A contract marriage. One year. You play the devoted wife at business functions, help me secure a deal I'm working on. In return, I make sure your family understands exactly what they've lost."

"How?"

His smile turns predatory. "Let me worry about the details."

Something cold settles in my stomach. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just terms. No romantic entanglements, no emotional complications. Pure business."

I look down at the business card, then back at his face. Those empty gray eyes reveal nothing.

"You're serious," I realize.

"Completely."

"And if I say no?"

He shrugs. "Then you go back to your life. Back to being the twin who wasn't quite good enough, the daughter who wasn't quite perfect enough, the woman who wasn't quite enough to keep her fiancé faithful."

Each word is a knife, precisely placed. But the truth is, he's right. If I go back now, nothing changes. Violet wins. Marcus wins. And I'll spend the rest of my life being the cautionary tale, the almost-bride, the one who wasn't enough.

"One year?" I ask.

"One year."

"And then?"

"And then we go our separate ways. Clean break, no strings attached."

I pick up the contract he's somehow produced from his jacket—when did he do that?—and stare at the dense legal text. The alcohol makes the words swim on the page, but I catch key phrases: "Marriage of convenience," "Mutual benefit," "Dissolution after twelve months."

"I need to read this properly," I say.

"Of course. But the chapel closes in an hour."

My head snaps up. "You want to do this now? Tonight?"

"Strike while the iron is hot, as they say. Besides," his eyes glitter with something that might be amusement, "you're already dressed for it."

I look down at my wedding dress—my grandmother's wedding dress—now wrinkled and stained with tears and whiskey.

"This is insane," I repeat.

"Yes," he agrees. "But sometimes insane is exactly what the situation calls for."

My phone buzzes again. This time it's a call from my father. I can picture him pacing in his study, worried about the family reputation, about what people will think when word gets out that his daughter ran away from her own wedding.

What would he say if I married Cassian Wolfe instead? What would Violet say? What would Marcus say?

The thought sends a thrill of something dark and satisfying through me.

"If I do this," I say carefully, "I want to add some terms of my own."

Cassian nods. "I'd expect nothing less."

"I want a prenup that protects both of us. I want my own space—no sharing bedrooms or playing house behind closed doors. And I want complete honesty about what this business deal is and how my being your wife helps you get it."

"Agreed." He signals for a pen from the bartender. "Anything else?"

I think about Violet's smug face, about Marcus's lies, about all the years of being second-best.

"I want them to know," I say. "I don't want this to be some secret. I want everyone to see that I'm fine. Better than fine."

"Done." He slides the pen across to me. "So? Do we have a deal, Mrs. Wolfe?"

Mrs. Wolfe. The name sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the air conditioning.

This is crazy. This is the most impulsive thing I've ever done in my methodical, careful life.

I pick up the pen.

That's when I notice something strange. As my fingers brush his while taking the pen, I see him flinch. Not pull away—flinch, like I've hurt him somehow. But that's impossible. I barely touched him.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

For just a moment, his careful mask slips. Something raw and vulnerable flickers in those gray eyes before the wall slams back down.

"I'm fine," he says, but his voice is tighter than before.

I want to ask more questions, but he's already standing, straightening his jacket with movements that are somehow too controlled, too careful.

"The chapel," he reminds me. "One hour."

I look at the contract, then at him, then at my phone buzzing incessantly with calls and texts from the people who betrayed me.

"Fuck it," I say, and sign my name at the bottom.

Cassian's smile is sharp as a blade. "Excellent. I'll see you at the altar, Mrs. Wolfe."

He leaves cash on the bar—far too much cash—and walks away, leaving me sitting there in my ruined wedding dress with a contract that will either save my life or destroy it completely.

My phone buzzes one more time. A text from an unknown number: Car will be outside in ten minutes. Don't be late. - CW

I down the rest of my drink and stand on unsteady legs.

In the mirror behind the bar, I catch sight of myself: wild hair, smeared makeup, grandmother's dress wrinkled beyond repair. I look like exactly what I am—a woman whose life just exploded.

But for the first time all day, I'm smiling.

The black car idling outside the Bellagio has tinted windows and leather seats that smell like money. The driver doesn't speak as we pull away from the curb, but I catch him watching me in the rearview mirror.

As we navigate through the neon chaos of the Strip, my phone rings one more time. Violet's name flashes on the screen.

I answer.

"Ivy, thank God! Where are you? Marcus is beside himself. We've been looking everywhere—"

"I'm getting married," I interrupt.

Silence.

"What do you mean you're getting married? To Marcus? But where—"

"Not to Marcus." My voice is steady now, clear. The alcohol is wearing off, replaced by something harder, more focused. "To someone else."

"That's impossible. You can't just—"

"His name is Cassian Wolfe." I let that sink in for a moment. I can practically hear Violet's brain short-circuiting on the other end of the line. "Maybe you've heard of him."

"Cassian Wolfe?" Her voice is barely a whisper. "The Cassian Wolfe? From Wolfe Industries?"

"The very one. We're heading to the chapel now."

"Ivy, you're in shock. You're not thinking clearly. Just come back to the hotel and we'll talk—"

"There's nothing to talk about, Vi." I watch the wedding chapels blur past the window. "Oh, and congratulations on Marcus. I'm sure you two will be very happy together."

I hang up and turn off the phone.