After My Groom Proposed to His "Dying" Mistress

The morning air carried a hint of salt from the Atlantic as I arrived at the Hamilton Estate just after dawn. My heels clicked softly against the cobblestone path leading to the grand venue I'd spent months perfecting. Eight years with Ryan had led to this moment—our wedding, only three weeks away.

I ran my fingers along the intricate wrought-iron gate as I entered, savoring the cool metal against my skin. The estate was silent except for the occasional call of seagulls and the gentle rustling of leaves. This peaceful solitude was exactly what I needed for my final walkthrough.

"Ms. Mitchell?" The estate manager appeared from the main building, clipboard in hand. "You're quite early."

"I wanted to see everything in the morning light," I explained, not mentioning that I'd barely slept, too excited about finalizing our wedding plans. "I'll just be checking a few details."

He nodded and retreated, leaving me alone with my creation. I'd poured everything into designing this space—not just my professional skills as an interior designer, but every ounce of love I had for Ryan. Each element told our story.

The marble pathway curved gently through the garden toward the ceremony site. I walked it slowly, imagining myself in my dress, my father beside me. The white wooden chairs would be arranged in perfect semicircles, facing the custom-built floral arch where Ryan would be waiting. I'd selected white roses and blue hydrangeas—his favorite—intertwined with delicate greenery.

I touched the silk ribbons I'd hung from the surrounding trees, watching them dance in the breeze. "Till death do us part," I whispered, practicing the words that would soon bind us forever.

Moving to the reception area, I traced the outline of the table settings with my fingertips. Crystal glasses that would catch the sunset light. Hand-calligraphed place cards. The dance floor where we'd have our first dance as husband and wife.

Every detail reflected the life we'd built together—the apartment in Manhattan where I pretended to be just another struggling interior designer, hiding my family name and fortune to preserve what felt real between us. Ryan loved me for me, not for being a Mitchell. That truth was worth every sacrifice.

A noise from the garden caught my attention. Voices. I checked my watch—7:15 AM. Too early for the florist or any other vendors.

Curious, I followed the sound, my footsteps silent on the grass. As I approached the rose-covered trellis that marked the entrance to the ceremony space, I slowed, recognizing Ryan's voice.

"I've been waiting for this moment for so long," he was saying, his tone tender in a way that made my heart swell.

I smiled, thinking he must be on the phone with his mother or perhaps his best man. I moved closer, intending to surprise him, when a woman's voice responded.

"I can't believe this is happening."

I froze, my body suddenly cold despite the warm morning. Carefully, I peered through the lattice of roses.

Ryan was on one knee, holding