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It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. My wedding to Liam Vance, the tech mogul, a man I loved and trusted with my whole heart. Then, a text from an unknown number shattered my perfect world: a photo of a woman's hand, a massive diamond ring mirroring mine, resting on his custom wedding suit sleeve. The message: "Is this the wedding dress you designed for me? It's beautiful, Ava. Liam is a lucky man." My blood ran cold as I recognized Chloe, Liam's "terminally ill" ex-business partner, reflected in the photo. He had been spinning elaborate lies, claiming to comfort her in her final days, while he was secretly planning a wedding with her, using our venue, on our day. Every hushed phone call, every late night "crisis" at work – it all clicked into place. I was just a naive fool, part of his elaborate facade. The white roses he' d sent me that morning wilted, mirroring my dying love. A smudge of Chloe's garish pink lipstick on his suit sleeve, brought into my studio, was the final insult. Anger, cold and sharp, replaced my heartbreak. He called, spinning yet another lie about a server meltdown, postponing our wedding. But as I listened to the string quartet playing in the background of his call, a new, dangerous resolve hardened within me. He wanted a wedding that day? Fine. He was going to get one. But it wouldn't be his. I was going to rewrite the entire script, and it would be a masterpiece of public humiliation.