From Jilted Wife To The Tycoon's Queen

The harsh glare of the spotlight hit the heavy silk of Harper Ryan's custom wedding dress. She stood at the center of the Plaza Hotel ballroom. Hundreds of crystal glasses clinked together. Her heart hammered against her ribs in a steady, rapid rhythm. She turned her head, a genuine smile forming on her lips, and looked at Chase Young.

A sharp, violent vibration tore through the fabric of Chase's tuxedo pocket.

The wedding officiant cleared his throat, shooting Chase a subtle warning look. Chase ignored him. He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

Harper watched the blood drain completely from Chase's face. His skin turned the color of dirty ash. His fingers, gripping the edges of the phone, began to shake.

Harper reached out. She tried to place her hand over his to steady him.

Chase violently yanked his arm away. The sudden, jerky movement caused his cufflink to scrape across the back of Harper's hand. A thin red line of blood immediately welled up on her skin.

He lifted the phone to his ear. "Lila."

The name punched the air out of Harper's lungs. A massive wave of panic crashed into her chest, making it impossible to breathe.

Chase did not look at Harper. He did not offer a single word of explanation. He turned his body, lowered his shoulder, and shoved hard into the groomsman standing in his way. He sprinted down the center aisle, his expensive leather shoes slipping slightly on the polished floor as he ran toward the heavy oak doors of the ballroom.

He slammed both hands against the doors. They crashed open. A gust of cold, damp air rushed into the warm room, catching the edge of Harper's long veil and whipping it across her face.

The silence in the room broke. The whispers of hundreds of guests hit Harper like a physical blow. She could feel their eyes on her skin. Pity. Mockery. Disgust.

A man in a cheap suit near the back row suddenly raised a camera. The blinding flash exploded in Harper's vision. More flashes followed, burning white spots into her retinas.

Harper swallowed hard. The bile rising in her throat tasted like acid. She locked her knees, forced her spine completely straight, and picked up her champagne glass. She brought the rim to her lips and swallowed the burning liquid in one gulp.

At the head table, Genevieve Young stood up. Her face was a mask of pure rage. The sharp heels of her shoes clicked against the hardwood floor, a rapid, aggressive sound that cut through the whispers.

Genevieve reached Harper. She did not speak. She grabbed Harper's wrist, her long nails digging deep into the flesh, and dragged her off the stage and toward the back hallway of the hotel.

Harper stumbled over the heavy layers of her dress. Genevieve shoved her hard. Harper's back hit the cold marble wall of the corridor. The impact sent a dull ache down her spine.

Before