Heiress Betrayed: My Sweet Revenge Wedding

For seven years, I hid my identity as a wealthy heiress to be with my boyfriend, Ewing. I followed him across the country and made myself small so he could feel big.

On Thanksgiving, he ditched our celebration for his first love, Bree, who supposedly had a "burst pipe."

Later, she posted an intimate selfie with him, calling him her "hero."

Then she sent me a video of him at a bar, laughing with his friends.

"She's just being dramatic," he slurred, smirking at the camera. "A new necklace and she'll forget all about it. She's easy."

Easy. Seven years of my life, my love, my sacrifice-all reduced to that one word. I realized I was never his partner. I was just a placeholder.

I didn't cry. I packed my bags, booked a one-way flight to New York, and sent him one final text before blocking his number.

"Don't bother coming home. I'm getting married."

Chapter 1

Haven Holden POV:

On Thanksgiving, after seven years together, my boyfriend, Ewing Hurley, ditched our planned celebration for his first love, Bree Campbell, who needed help with a "burst pipe."

The scent of roasted turkey, rich with rosemary and thyme, filled our small Denver apartment. It was supposed to be a warm, comforting smell, the kind that wraps around you like a hug. But today, it felt cloying, heavy with disappointment. I' d spent all morning preparing a feast for two: the turkey, a creamy green bean casserole just the way Ewing liked it, mashed potatoes whipped until they were fluffy clouds, and a pumpkin pie cooling on the counter, its spicy-sweet aroma a ghost of the celebration we were supposed to have.

Ewing was supposed to be here an hour ago.

I picked up my phone for the tenth time, my thumb hovering over his contact. No new messages. My last text, a simple "Everything okay?" sent forty-five minutes ago, remained unanswered. A familiar, cold knot tightened in my stomach. This wasn' t the first time. It wasn' t even the fifth. Whenever Bree Campbell called, Ewing ran.

I scrolled absently through my social media feed, a mindless habit to numb the growing unease. And then I saw it. A new post from Bree.

My breath caught in my throat.

The picture was a selfie, taken in a steamy bathroom mirror. Bree was laughing, her head tilted just so, a smudge of what looked like grease on her cheek. Behind her, out of focus but unmistakable, was Ewing. He was on his knees, working on the pipes under her sink, his back to the camera. The angle was suggestive, intimate. He was wearing the gray henley I bought him for his birthday last month.

Her caption was the final twist of the knife. "My hero! Came to rescue me from a Thanksgiving flood. Some people just get it. #BurstPipe #ThanksgivingKnight #BetterThanTurkey"

My hero.

The casual intimacy of the photo, the proprietary way she claimed him, it all felt like a performance designed