Married to the Billionaire Who Betrayed Me novel Chapter 6

Chapter 6 The Fake Bride Takes Over

“Look at her,” Elena sneered, her voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. “Not a word to say for herself. She thought she could

use her body to trap a billionaire. She thought she could outplay a Whitmore.”

Charlotte Bennett stepped closer, her heels clicking like a countdown on the marble floor. The sharp, medicinal scent of her martini

overwhelmed the fragrance of the white roses. A mistress never learns her place,” she said, her eyes raking over my emerald dress as

if she could see the price tag-and found it lacking. “You are a distraction, Minerva. A toy he played with when he was bored with

board meetings. Did you think a few nights in his bed meant something? Men like Tristan marry power. They marry pedigree. They

throw the toys away.”

The crowd around us grew thicker. It was a physical wall of silk, wool, and diamonds, pressing in on me, stealing the air. I looked ar

the faces. To them, I wasn’t a person. I was a glitch in the programming of the perfect night.

“Shameless,” an older woman muttered from a nearby table. She didn’t even look up from her lobster bisque.

*Security should escort her out,” a man agreed. He adjusted his cufflinks, his expression bored. “She looks unstable.”

They were stripping away my dignity piece by piece, right there under the warm glow of the chandeliers. They branded me a whore

in front of the city’s elite, and I had to stand there and take it. I bit the inside of my cheek until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I used the sharp sting of it to anchor myself, to keep the tears from spilling over. I refused to give them the satisfaction

of seeing me break.

“He promised me,” I whispered. The words slipped out before I could catch them-a pathetic, broken confession that sounded like a

prayer to a god that had already left the room.

Charlotte let out a peal of laughter. It was a jagged sound that felt like it was intended to draw blood. ‘He promised you? What did

he promise you? A ring? A wedding?” She looked at the women around her, and they shared a look of amused disgust.

“Men say anything to get you on your back, Sofia said, her voice rising to ensure the nearby tables could hear. “You are old enough

to know better. You played a stupid game, and you lost. Tristan is engaged to Celeste. They will be married by spring. You are

nothing.”

I looked down at the floor. The intricate pattern of the carpet swirled under my gaze, making me dizzy. I had nothing left.

I gathered the last shreds of my strength. I raised my head and looked Charlotte dead in the eye. The tears remained unshed, frozen

by a cold, hollow numbness that was spreading through my veins. “Keep the escort card, I said, my voice flat and devoid of the girl

who had walked into this hotel an hour ago. “I am leaving.”

I turned toward the exit. I needed air. I needed to feel the cold wind from the harbor again, anything to wash off the scent of these

people. But as I took my first step, a hand clamped onto my wrist.

Fingernails dug into my skin with shocking force. I stopped and looked back. Sofia held my arm, her smile gone, her eyes hardened

into dark, malicious slits. “You are not leaving,” she hissed. “You do not get to crash the most important night of the year, insult our

friends, and just walk away.”

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Chapter 6 The Fake Bride Takes Over

“Let go of me,” I said. My voice was low, but it trembled.

“You will apologize, Charlotte stepped up, flanking Sofia. She pointed toward the front of the room where the light was brightest. “You will walk over to Celeste. You will congratulate her on her engagement. And you will apologize for your behavior.”

“I will do no such thing.” I jerked my arm, trying to break Sofia’s grip, but she held on, her knuckles white.

‘Do not make a scene, Minerva, Victoria warned. She motioned to a pair of security guards standing near the ballroom entrance. They were already moving toward us, their earpieces glinting. “You are already a pathetic joke. Do you want to be a headline tomorrow? ‘Mistress Dragged Out Kicking and Screaming”?”

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I was surrounded. The guests watched with the kind of morbid fascination

people usually reserved for car crashes.

I looked for Tristan one last time.

He stood fifty feet away. He had turned toward the commotion. He saw Sofia holding my wrist. He saw the guards approaching. He

saw the circle of women closing in on his wife. Our eyes met across the expanse of white roses.

Help me. I didn’t say it. I couldn’t. But I screamed it with my eyes. I am your wife. Protect me. Tell them to let me go.

Tristan’s jaw clenched. He took a half-step forward, his hand reaching out as if to clear the path.

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Then, he stopped.

His gaze flickered. He looked at the reporters hovering near the stage. He looked at Evelyn Johnston sitting in the front row-the

matriarch who held the strings to his empire, watching him with eyes like flint.

He stepped back. He lowered his head and turned his attention back to his whiskey glass, swirling the amber liquid as if it were the

most important thing in the world.

A cold chill swept over my body. The last thread of hope snapped. The man I loved died in that moment, and the ghost left standing in his tuxedo meant nothing to me anymore.

“Let her go, Sofia.”

The circle parted instantly. The women stepped aside, their malicious sneers transforming into expressions of reverence.

Celeste Whitmore entered the clearing.

She looked radiant. Her white gown flowed around her like water, and the massive diamond on her finger caught the chandelier light, throwing scattered rainbows across my face. She stopped two feet away from me. She tilted her head, her blue eyes sweeping over my dress, my hair, and the red marks forming on my wrist where Sofia had finally released her grip.

She didn’t look angry. She looked victorious.

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