The Substitute Bride's Revenge

At the CEO's birthday gala, the chandelier overhead sent shards of light flashing across the room.

I wore the vintage gown I'd found in a thrift shop, completely unaware I was making a huge mistake.

"That was Mom's favorite dress!"

Ten-year-old Lucas came charging at me out of nowhere, his little face twisted with rage.

He shoved me—hard—and I stumbled straight into the champagne fountain.

Glass shattered all around me.

Shards sliced into my arms, the champagne mixing with blood as it soaked through the white fabric of my dress.

I tried to lift my head.

Not far away, Mr. Harrison stood watching—expressionless.

"Trash."

Lucas glared down at me, his voice laced with contempt.

"A woman like you has no right to wear Mom's clothes."

I pushed myself up off the floor, sharp glass digging into my palms.

Ten years.

Ten years of bedtime stories, of calming his nightmares, of watching him grow.

And now he looked at me like I was nothing.

Less than nothing.

"I'll resign tomorrow," I said, my voice trembling but steady.

Lucas smirked.

"Smart choice. Dad says women like you—"

"Enough."

Mr. Harrison's voice cut through the room like a knife—cold and controlled.

"Take her to the infirmary."

I brushed off the butler's hand and pulled myself up using the wall.

Champagne—or maybe blood—dripped steadily from the hem of my dress.

As I passed Mr. Harrison, I heard him murmur under his breath,

"That dress really did suit you."

The ballroom lights suddenly felt blinding.

Oliver Carter's ten-year-old eyes locked on me, full of venom—cold, sharp, and deliberate.

A maid draped a cashmere shawl over my shoulders. I turned to leave.

Riiip—

The hem of my dress snagged on the corner of the table. The sound of tearing split the silence.

"You bitch! That was my mother's favorite dress!"

Oliver exploded, his childish face twisted with rage.

I looked down at the simple linen gown—and gave a faint smile.

"Oliver, lying's a bad habit."

Isabella Clark had loved designer gowns. Her walk-in closet was filled with custom pieces dripping in diamonds.

This one? I bought it last week at a secondhand shop.

Oliver's face twisted again. He kicked the coffee table, hard, then stormed off without another word.

I didn't follow.

After the party, I opened the bedroom door—and the metallic stench of blood hit me like a slap.

Snowball hung from the chandelier.

White fur soaked crimson.

Blood dripped onto the brand-new cashmere rug.

"Hahaha! Serves you right!"

Oliver burst out from the hallway, jumping up and down like it was a game.

"You killed my mom, so I killed your dog!"

I didn't say a word.

I just stepped forward and gathered Snowball's stiff little body into my arms.

He felt cold.

Just like Ethan Carter's eyes the first time I walked into the mansion ten years ago.

Back then, I was twenty.

One suitcase.

No family, no options.

The Carters paid well—enough to keep my gambling father alive in Macau for a few more months.

What I didn't know was that they weren't looking for a maid.

They were looking for a womb.

"Sophia."

His voice came from behind me—smooth, deep, and empty.

Ethan stood in the doorway, immaculate in a tailored suit, his tie perfectly knotted.

He looked past the blood. Past the dog. Past me.

"Oliver's just a kid," he said, removing his cufflinks.

"Let him act out. He'll get over it."

I didn't move.