I Faked Amnesia to Destroy My Sister’s Stolen Wedding

I stood at the altar of the Bellevue Estate in Beverly Hills, surrounded by cascading white orchids and blush-pink roses that cost more than some people's monthly rent. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the arched windows, casting a golden glow across the marble floor. This should have been the happiest day of my life—the rehearsal for my dream wedding to Ryan Mitchell, heir to the Mitchell real estate empire. Instead, my chest felt tight, constricted by something far heavier than the delicate silk of my ivory dress.

Ryan stood across from me, six feet of tailored perfection in his charcoal suit, his expression blank and distant. His hazel eyes kept drifting past my shoulder, focusing on something—or someone—behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know who commanded his attention. Victoria. My sister.

"Isabella, could you please move slightly to your right?" The wedding planner's voice cut through my thoughts. "We need to ensure the lighting captures you perfectly."

I shifted obediently, watching as Ryan's gaze followed the movement behind me. In the reflection of the decorative mirror positioned near the altar, I caught a glimpse of Victoria's slender arm draping possessively around Ryan's shoulder as she whispered something in his ear. Her crimson lips curved into a smile that never reached her eyes.

"Let's run through the vows one more time," the officiant said, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.

I forced my lips into what I hoped resembled a smile. Years of being the overlooked Chen daughter had taught me how to perform, how to pretend everything was fine when it wasn't. My grandmother Margaret would have seen right through it—she always did—but she wasn't here. Conveniently, my brother Marcus had arranged for her to remain at her assisted living facility in Seattle, claiming the travel would be too taxing.

"Do you, Ryan Mitchell, take Isabella Chen..." The officiant's words faded into background noise as I watched Ryan's face. Nothing. No emotion, no love, not even the courtesy of pretending. Just stone-faced obligation.

The ornate floral arch above us creaked slightly. I glanced up, noticing one of the stage lights wobbling precariously. The wedding planner followed my gaze and frowned.

"Should we—" I began.

The sound of metal snapping interrupted me. Time seemed to slow as the heavy light fixture broke free from its moorings and plummeted downward. I heard Victoria's theatrical gasp, saw Ryan step back—away from me, not toward me—and then felt a searing pain as the fixture struck my head and shoulder.

The world tilted. Shards of glass scattered across the marble floor like diamonds. The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was Ryan's face—not horrified, not concerned, but startled, as if I'd done something unexpected and inconvenient.

* * *

The steady beep of medical equipment pulled me back to consciousness. My eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and a dull throb pulsed through my skull with each heartbeat. The antiseptic smell and the soft hum of machines told me I