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My wedding to Ethan Vanderbilt was just days away, a picture-perfect Charleston fairy tale. I was Savannah Monroe, an heiress from old Southern money, living a charmed life. Everything was flawless, or so I thought. I was deeply in love, convinced he was my rock, my future. Then came the impact. A blinding flash, a brutal crash. I woke up in a pristine hospital room, pain searing through me. Ethan, my seemingly devoted fiancé, whispered assurances it was a tragic hit-and-run. But one night, drifting between sleep and waking, I heard their voices. Ethan's, devoid of the concern he showed me, and Dr. Finch's. They were talking about me: "She'll be paralyzed. The hysterectomy... to make things easier. Brooke is getting impatient. And Leo needs a mother." The love I felt for Ethan shattered, replaced by a chilling clarity. The accident was staged. He'd orchestrated my paralysis and barrenness, all to discard me for his mistress, Brooke, and their secret son, Leo. He even planned to repurpose *my* meticulously planned wedding, the very lace from my mother's heirloom gown. He saw me as a broken doll, easily manipulated, dependent. How could the man I loved, the man who embodied everything a Monroe woman could want, betray me so completely? It wasn't just a betrayal; it was a calculated, monstrous destruction of my future. The audacity, the cruelty, stole my breath. But they forgot one crucial thing: Monroes don't fold. Trapped yet not broken, a fierce resolve ignited within me. My fairy tale was a lie, but Savannah Monroe was about to rewrite her own dramatic, unforgettable ending.