A week before my wedding, my fiancé paid a man to destr0y my face with ac:id so he could secretly marry another woman. While pretending to remain unconscious in the hospital, I heard him say, “If she’s left scarred, even better.” I didn’t scream. I waited until he left and asked for one thing… because I had just discovered that the attack wasn’t his worst betrayal.

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Gabriel stood frozen beside the hospital bed, his leather briefcase trembling in his grip.

For eight years, Gabriel had managed Christian’s meteoric rise from Nashville bars to sold-out stadium tours. He had covered up late-night parties, smoothed over contractual disputes, and managed the artist’s volatile ego. But looking at the bandages covering my face and knowing the chemical poison that had killed my three unborn babies, Gabriel’s loyalty broke in half.

“Genevieve...” Gabriel whispered, rushing to the side of the bed and gripping my cold fingers. “I swear on my life, I didn't know about the miscarriages. I thought you had a genetic condition. When he told me about Dr. Lawson five minutes ago... I felt sick to my stomach.”

“Do you have the proof, Gabriel?” I rasped, my throat raw from the trauma.

“I have everything on my private cloud server,” Gabriel answered rapidly, checking the hallway through the small observation window. “Christian used my corporate credit cards to wire the $60,000 to the attacker through an offshore escrow account in Panama. He thought I was blindly processing a private security retainer. And I have the email logs where Christian instructed Dr. Lawson to alter your custom vitamin compound.”

Tears of pure, burning rage slipped from beneath my left bandage.

“Where is Christian now?”

“He’s flying to Chicago on his private jet for a live television interview on Good Morning America,” Gabriel said. “He’s going to announce to sixty million viewers that his beloved fiancée was the victim of a random, senseless street attack, and that he will dedicate his new charity album to your recovery.”

A cold, bitter laugh caught in my chest. “He’s turning my burning flesh into album sales.”

“What do you want me to do, Genevieve?” Gabriel asked, his voice filled with absolute resolve. “If you file a police report now, Christian’s high-priced legal defense firm—Vance & Sterling—will bury this in private settlements. They will buy off the local detectives and claim you were suffering from postpartum psychosis or severe trauma hallucinations.”

I looked up at the ceiling tiles, feeling the strength returning to my hands.

“Christian wants a wedding on Saturday, Gabriel,” I said, each word landing with the precision of a piano key. “We are going to give him the biggest wedding in American history.”

“You can’t stand at an altar, Genevieve! Your face—”

“We have seven days, Gabriel,” I interrupted, looking him dead in the eye. “Get me out of this hospital before Christian’s private security detail arrives to lock down the floor. And call Dr. Julian Bennett.”

Gabriel gasped. “Julian Bennett? The chief of regenerative trauma at the Cleveland Surgical Institute?”