My Groom Took My Mother’s Blood for His Mistress

The crystal chandeliers of the Pierre Hotel didn’t sparkle; they glared. Under their harsh interrogation, I adjusted the strap of my gown, feeling the silk cling to the cold sweat on my back. This was supposed to be the night Asher and I announced our wedding date. Instead, the air in the ballroom felt thin, insufficient to fill my lungs.

I scanned the room for my parents. They weren't at the head table where the place cards read *Family of the Bride*. I found them tucked into a dark corner near the swinging kitchen doors, the draft from the service entrance fluttering the hem of my mother’s modest dress. Dad was staring at his hands, knuckles white as he gripped the tablecloth. Mom looked smaller than I remembered, her skin possessing the translucent, papery quality of dried leaves.

A waiter dropped a tray onto their table with a clatter that cut through the string quartet’s melody. No crystal flutes. No porcelain. Just paper plates loaded with cold, curling ham sandwiches and Styrofoam containers that smelled of day-old grease.

"What is this?" The words scraped my throat. I marched over, my heels sinking into the plush carpet.

"It's fine, Blaire," Mom whispered, her voice a fragile reed. She tried to smile, but the effort only highlighted the dark hollows under her eyes. "We don't want to make a fuss."

"I ordered the sea bass for you. The chef prepared a special menu for your dietary needs."

Before I could signal a captain, the double doors swung open. The room went silent, the kind of silence that precedes a car crash.

Asher walked in. He wasn't looking for me. His arm was looped tightly through Annalise Vargas’s. She wore a dress that looked like it had been poured onto her body, a shimmering crimson that made my ivory gown look like a shroud. Asher looked every inch the tech mogul—tailored navy suit, jaw set with arrogant confidence, eyes sweeping the room like a king surveying peasants.

They didn't stop at the entrance. They walked straight to us.

"Asher?" I stepped forward, blocking his path to my parents. "What is going on? Why is Annalise here?"

He looked through me, his gaze landing on the waiter hovering nearby. "Change of plans," Asher announced, his voice carrying easily to the silent onlookers. "Bring the lobster thermidor and the '96 Dom Pérignon to Ms. Vargas. She’s the only one here with the palate to appreciate it."

A ripple of whispers tore through the crowd. Annalise giggled, a sharp, brittle sound. "Oh, Asher, you shouldn't have. But I suppose *some* people are used to deli meat."

My father stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floor. " Gordon, you son of a—"

"Sit down, Frank," Asher snapped, not even flinching. "Unless you want the security team to escort you out before dessert."

Beside me, a soft gasp turned into a rattle. Mom’s hand flew to her chest. She was shaking, a violent tremor that started