Chapter 1

Inside the VIP fitting room of Vera Wang's New York flagship,

as three assistants gave up trying to zip my six-figure custom gown,

the truth finally hit me:

this grand wedding Julian Thorne had spun for me was a lie from the very start.

He stood a few feet away, showing no remorse.

All I saw was impatience.

"Ava, is your personal trainer just for show?

It’s a standard size."

He looked me over like a bad investment.

"Whatever.

The wedding is next week.

Starve yourself for a few days, and you'll squeeze into it."

Same old bullshit.

Ever since his ex-girlfriend, Chloe, moved back to town,

Julian had made a habit of treating me like an afterthought.

Like the custom JAR perfume I got for my promotion.

He gave it away without a second thought,

only because Chloe played the 'poor girl' card.

"Babe, it's just a symbol.

Order yourself another bottle.

Don't be so petty."

Or when he smiled and handed me an almond cookie,

conveniently forgetting my lethal allergy.

"Try it. Chloe says these are the best in New York."

Now, watching me suffocate in this ridiculous dress,

he didn't show a shred of guilt.

Instead, he snapped a picture and sent it straight to Chloe.

I silently slid the five-carat engagement ring off my finger.

He must have forgotten something.

He was the one who gave the designer the measurements.

It wasn't some "standard size."

It belonged to someone barely five-foot-three.

Chloe.

And me? I'm five-foot-eight with a healthy, athletic build.

He loves problem solving?

Good.

Because starting today, his biggest problem is finding a new bride.

……

Julian took the ring out of the velvet box.

He spoke to me like he was soothing a disobedient pet.

"Stop throwing a tantrum, Ava. You're acting like a child."

He reached for my hand, trying to force the ring back on.

I took a step back, dodging his grasp.

"Fine. I was wrong.

I shouldn't have called you fat."

He acted like he was doing me a massive favor.

"But every woman drops a few pounds to look good on camera.

I'm looking out for you."

I stared at my reflection.

The hemline hovered awkwardly around my calves.

I looked utterly absurd.

I didn't say a word.

This was the 99th time he had told me to "look at the bigger picture."

The past 98 times, I sucked it up.

But this time?

How the hell was I supposed to compromise?

Chop off my own legs to fit into a dress that wasn't even made for me?