I frowned, staring into my champagne glass. Whitmore? The Whitmore family owned one of the largest investment firms on the coast. Tristan mentioned them a few times, always with a tone of frustration.

“She has been planning this since they were in college,” Charlotte laughed. “I saw her in the VIP lounge earlier. She looks nauseatingly perfect.”

“Tristan is quite the prize,” Victoria agreed. “Cold as ice, but look at the empire he controls. Plus, he cleans up well.”

The glass in my hand trembled. I tightened my grip, my knuckles turning white.

They were gossiping. That was what these women did. They created rumors out of thin air to entertain themselves. They saw Tristan and a Whitmore executive in the same room and fabricated a romance. It meant nothing.

I pushed past them, my chest tightening with every step. The air in the ballroom suddenly felt too thick, too heavy with the scent of white roses. The perfume was suffocating. I needed to find him. I needed him to look at me, to give me that imperceptible nod that meant everything was fine.

I reached the edge of the VIP section. Velvet ropes blocked the area near the stage. I stood behind them, my eyes scanning the front tables.

Then, I saw the stage.

The backdrop was not the Johnston corporate logo. It was a massive, illuminated crest made of intertwined letters.

T & C.

Tristan and Celeste.

My breath stopped. The noise of the ballroom faded into a dull roar, like rushing water filling my ears. I stared at the letters. T and C. The lights tracing the curves of the initials blurred as moisture gathered in my eyes. I blinked hard, forcing the tears away.

No.

This was a mistake. A misunderstanding. A sick joke.

I reached up, my fingers digging into my chest, finding the hard outline of the ring beneath my dress. It was there. The metal pressed into my skin, a physical anchor to reality. I was his wife. We stood in front of a judge. We signed the papers. The ink was dry.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a booming voice echoed through the sound system, cutting through the chatter.

The string quartet stopped playing. The low hum of conversation vanished, replaced by an expectant silence. Heads turned toward the front. The crowd parted, creating a wide aisle leading from the grand staircase to the stage.

“Please direct your attention to the grand staircase,” the announcer continued, his voice dripping with practiced enthusiasm. “It is my absolute honor to present the hosts of this evening’s celebration. Please welcome the CEO of the Johnston Group, Mr. Tristan Johnston, and his bride-to-be, Miss Celeste Whitmore.”

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify