The day before our wedding, my fiancé, Alexander Carter, died in a horrific car accident. Everyone thought I would collapse, that I would lose my mind with grief. But I didn’t. I neither cried nor made a scene. Five years later, in a top-tier luxury hotel in Manhattan, that man “came back from the dead.” He was openly fucking my stepsister, Marjorie. Shirtless and brazen, he pinned her against a chaise longue in the middle of an open party, forcing her legs apart and driving into her without restraint. Her shrill moans cut through the room. A heap of used condoms on the floor made it clear they’d been at it for a long time. When he noticed me standing alone, he didn’t stop. He thrust harder, drawing even louder cries from her, then looked at me with a smug smile. “So you’re my fiancée?” he said arrogantly. “You waited five years for me?” He sneered. “How desperate can you be? That kind of obsession is creepy. Still, since you love me so much, I’ll be generous. I can keep you as my mistress. But the title of Mrs. Carter belongs to Marjorie. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are hers. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, I’ll come to you. Be grateful.” I smiled. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.” What Alexander didn’t know was that the night of his car accident, I received a video. What he didn’t know was that while he and Marjorie spent five carefree years in Europe, I had already married—and had a four-year-old daughter. And my husband was his uncle, the true power behind the Carter family.
