Chapter 1

On my phone screen, Adrian was slipping a million-dollar, haute couture wedding dress onto Bella.

Through the camera, his eyes were so tender they could melt steel. His fingers gently smoothed the hem of her skirt as if she were the most precious work of art in the world.

Just three days ago, he had proposed to me.

"Harper, this dress is called 'Aurora'," he had said. "It belongs only to you."

I stared at the screen, watching Bella turn to show off the gown, listening to the gasps of admiration from the socialites around them. It was my size, custom-tailored to my body.

But Bella was all curves.

Sure enough, as she puffed out her chest for the cameras, a distinct ripping sound echoed from her back.

The zipper had burst. The delicate lace split open like a spiderweb, exposing her skin.

Adrian scrambled to take off his suit jacket—the Armani I’d bought him last month—and clumsily wrapped it around her.

He faced the camera, his eyes red-rimmed, his voice trembling. "Bella, don't be scared. A dress can be redesigned, but you are the most perfect work of art."

He was a better actor than any Oscar winner.

My phone vibrated. A voice message from Riley. "Hahaha! Harper, did you see that? The artist you supported for seven years is now licking his goddess's boots like a fucking dog!"

I shut off the livestream and replied to Riley with a blank face, "I don't know him. Trash belongs in the trash can."

Then, I started packing a suitcase.

Not mine. His.

…

I met Adrian seven years ago.

I had just graduated from Wharton and landed a project manager job at a tech company in Manhattan.

He was a senior from my university, carrying the melancholic air of a Brooklyn artist, always complaining about being rejected by the mainstream art world.

Like a fool, I fell for him.

I funded his painting, paid his rent, and covered his credit card bills.

He said artists shouldn't be tied down by money, so I willingly became the "materialistic" one.

For seven years, I thought I was investing in our future marriage.

Until three nights ago.

He came home smelling of whiskey, held me tight, and whispered in my ear, "Harper, let's get married. I'll show you the dress tomorrow."

I cried. Seven years of waiting had finally paid off.

He was unusually passionate that night, his usual coolness replaced by a desperate need. It wasn't until he was panting against my neck that he whispered the name:

"Bella... Bella..."

My heart felt like it had been crushed in a vise.

He was using me as her substitute.

Even when we were making love, he was calling out another woman's name.

What could be more humiliating than that?

I lay awake until dawn, my body ice-cold.

The next day, he was in high spirits, completely oblivious to my mood.

He used the skincare products I bought, dressed himself immaculately, and gave me a perfunctory kiss on the forehead before leaving. "Don't come to the celebration party tonight, there will be too much media. Just wait for my good news at home."

I watched his back disappear through the door.

We're getting married, he'll settle down, right? That dress must really be for me, right?

I tried to comfort myself with these thoughts.

Until Riley sent me the video.