I Married The Tycoon In A Coma To Destroy My Ex

The ivory silk cascaded around my feet like liquid moonlight as Madame Beaumont made her final adjustments to my wedding gown. LaBella Couture's private fitting room on Fifth Avenue was bathed in golden afternoon light, making the thousands of hand-sewn crystals shimmer with every breath I took.

"Hold still, Miss Whitmore," Madame Beaumont murmured, pins delicately held between her lips as she adjusted the hem. "Perfection cannot be rushed."

I caught my reflection in the three-way mirror and barely recognized myself. Charlotte Whitmore, bride-to-be, future Mrs. Ryan Sterling. The thought alone made my heart flutter. In three days, I would walk down the aisle toward the man I'd loved since childhood.

"Your mother's veil complements the silhouette beautifully," my wedding planner, Vivienne, remarked from her perch on a velvet settee. "Ryan will be speechless."

I smiled, fingering the delicate lace edge of my grandmother's veil. "Three generations of Whitmore brides have worn this down the aisle. Each marriage more successful than the last."

"And yours will be the crown jewel," Vivienne assured me. "The Sterling-Whitmore union is all anyone in Manhattan can talk about."

My phone buzzed with a text from my mother: *CNN wants to cover the ceremony. Your father says it's your call.*

Of course they did. The merger of two of New York's most powerful families was practically a royal wedding in the eyes of Manhattan society.

"Miss Whitmore?" Madame Beaumont's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "We're finished. Would you like to see the final result?"

I nodded, and she carefully guided me to stand before the full-length mirrors. The woman staring back at me looked like she'd stepped from the pages of a fairy tale. The dress hugged my curves before flowing out in a dramatic train, the bodice intricately beaded with patterns that caught the light with every breath.

"It's perfect," I whispered, tears threatening to spill.

---

The next afternoon, I was supposed to be at my final menu tasting. Instead, I found myself standing frozen at the edge of a hastily assembled press conference in Central Park. Ryan's publicist had called an hour ago, insisting I come immediately. Something about a statement Ryan needed to make.

A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd as Ryan approached the microphone, his usually impeccable appearance slightly disheveled. Alexander stood just behind him, his expression unreadable.

"Thank you all for coming on such short notice," Ryan began, his voice carrying across the hushed gathering. His eyes scanned the crowd until they found mine, and for a moment, I saw something cold and calculated flash across his face before it was replaced with practiced remorse.

"Three weeks ago, I was involved in a car accident that resulted in partial memory loss." A collective gasp rose from the reporters. This was the first I'd heard of any accident. "While physically I've recovered, my doctors have confirmed that certain memories may never return."

My stomach twisted into a knot. What was happening?

"I've struggled with how to address this