The elevator rises silently, my crimson gown catching the light like liquid fire. My husband adjusts his cufflinks—cold steel eyes, sharper than any blade. "Ready?" he asks. I smile. Seven years ago, I cried when Julian said I wasn’t enough. Tonight, I’ll make him choke on envy.

The ballroom doors part. Cameras flash. Whispers ripple through the crowd as we descend the staircase—the newlyweds, the power couple no one saw coming.

And there he is. Pale. Staring. His hand still gripping his fiancée’s arm like an anchor.

Our eyes lock. I tilt my chin. He flinches.

Then I turn to my husband, cup his face, and kiss him deeply—slow, deliberate, victorious. A gasp echoes. But it’s not enough.

Not yet.

Julian stumbles forward, voice cracking. "You… you can’t be serious."

Security moves in, but I raise a hand. "Let him speak."

He drops to his knees.

"It was all a lie," he whispers. "I thought you were poor… I didn’t know you were *her*…"

The room holds its breath.

Now I have a choice.