My Groom’s Mistress Claimed She Was Carrying His Baby

The mirror in the Plaza Hotel’s bridal suite was an antique, the glass slightly warped at the edges, distorting my reflection just enough to make me look like a ghost. I smoothed the lace of my bodice for the hundredth time. My fingers were trembling. Not with excitement, but with a cold, creeping dread that had settled in my stomach three months ago and refused to leave.

"Stop fidgeting, Oaklynn," my mother said, her voice tight as she adjusted my veil. She didn't look at me, only at the image of the Palmer daughter she was about to sell. "You look perfect. The Richardsons will be pleased."

*Duty.* That was the word etched into my bones. I was the bridge between the fading elegance of the Palmer name and the raw, staggering wealth of the Richardson empire. I took a shallow breath, the corset biting into my ribs. I tried to conjure an image of Colton—his smile, the way he’d held my hand at the engagement party—but all my mind supplied was the smell of bourbon on his breath during the rehearsal dinner and the way his eyes constantly darted over my shoulder, looking for someone more interesting.

"I just want to be happy, Mother," I whispered, the words feeling childish as soon as they left my lips.

She paused, her hands freezing on my shoulders. "Happiness is a byproduct of security, darling. Colton is a Richardson. He is the future. You do your duty, and you will be secure."

Somewhere down the hall, in the groom's suite, the future of the Richardson dynasty was likely nursing a hangover. I imagined Colton laughing with his groomsmen, making crude jokes about the 'old ball and chain' before the ink was even dry on the license. He treated this wedding like a merger acquisition he hadn't bothered to read the briefing for.

The ceremony began in a blur of white flowers and hushed whispers. The ballroom was suffocating, packed with New York’s elite, every eye a judgment, every smile a calculation. As I walked down the aisle, the heavy organ music vibrated in my chest. Colton stood at the altar. He looked handsome in his tuxedo, I’ll give him that, but his posture was loose, arrogant. He wasn't looking at me with love; he was looking at me like I was a prize he’d already won and grown bored with.

The priest began to speak, droning on about sanctity and eternal bonds. I stared at Colton’s hands. He was picking at a loose thread on his cuff.

Then, the heavy double doors at the back of the ballroom slammed open. The sound was like a gunshot.

Heads turned. A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. Standing there, framed by the hallway light, was a woman in a crimson dress so tight it looked painted on. Ruby Barnes. I recognized her from the tabloids—a B-list actress with hungry eyes.

"Stop!" she shrieked, strutting down the aisle, one hand cradling a