The bouquet slipped from my fingers, hitting the marble with a soft thud. There he stood—my husband, James Alden, future MP—in a tailored black suit, sliding a diamond band onto another woman’s hand. The priest blessed their union under crystal chandeliers, while guests clapped, unaware this was meant to be our celebration next month. My stomach clenched, sharp and sudden. I gasped, doubling over as pain ripped through me. Too early. The baby was coming too soon.

Security didn’t help me. They didn’t even recognize me—I’d worn no jewels, said no titles. But then he appeared: Adrian Vale, my first love, the duke I left behind. 'You’re bleeding,' he said, voice tight. He swept me into his arms, shouting for a medic. As the crowd blurred into panic, one thought burned clear: I would survive this. And they would regret ever thinking I was nothing.