Blurb：
On her wedding day, Clarion Steele unearths a damning report: CEO Dawson Rhodes secretly underwent a vasectomy while subjecting her to brutal fertility treatments. The revelation shatters her world—until a three-year-old boy, Jamie, appears with Dawson’s eyes, followed by Delia Frost, Dawson’s scheming “white moonlight,” claiming center stage in Clarion’s wedding gown.
Publicly humiliated and framed as the villain, Clarion’s nightmare deepens when she discovers an unexpected pregnancy—a cruel twist amidst Dawson’s lies and Delia’s orchestrated sabotage. As miscarriage blood stains the hospital floor, Clarion vows vengeance.
Betrayed, gaslit, and abandoned, she transforms into a ruthless force, weaponizing dark truths about Dawson’s empire and Delia’s hidden past. But when Jamie’s paternity secret threatens to collapse their facade, Clarion must choose: burn their lives to ash… or reclaim the family stolen from her.
Content：
§01The report in my hand was dated six months ago.
The name on it was Dawson Rhodes.
And the procedure was a vasectomy.
I stared at the clinical black letters, my breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
For a year, my body had been a battleground.
Needles, hormones, the invasive chill of medical wands, the crushing weight of every negative test.
A secret war I’d waged for us, for the family I thought we were building.
He’d cupped my face in his hands, his eyes, those deep gray pools of earnestness, reflecting my own adoration back at me.
"Clarion," he’d said, his voice a soft caress. "Your health is too fragile. I can't bear to see you suffer through a pregnancy."
I had leaned into his touch, a wave of love so potent it washed away the sting of the needle marks on my skin.
The agony of my secret treatments dissolved into a sweet, misguided relief.
He did it for me.
A lie so tenderly crafted, it felt more real than the truth.
A sharp rap on the dressing room door jolted me back to the present.
"Five minutes, Ms. Steele!"
My wedding dress, a bespoke gown from a designer whose name was a whisper on the lips of the elite, felt like a shroud.
The vasectomy report crumpled in my fist.
Five minutes to walk down the aisle.
Or five minutes to burn his world to the ground.
§02
I chose the aisle.
Not out of weakness, but out of a cold, sudden clarity.
A public spectacle would make me the villain, the hysterical woman.
This wound was private, deep, and its reckoning would be on my terms.
I smoothed the crumpled paper and tucked it into the hidden pocket of my gown, a piece of shrapnel lodged against my heart.
Then, I walked.
The music swelled, a symphony of promises I now knew were hollow.
Every eye was on me, but my gaze was locked on the man at the end of the red carpet.
Dawson Rhodes. My partner, my love, the architect of my silent, year-long agony.
He smiled, a perfect, dazzling smile that had once been my entire world.
Today, it was just a mask.
I reached the altar, my hand in his. His skin was warm, familiar. Repulsive.
He leaned in, whispering for my ears only, "You look breathtaking."
"You have no idea," I whispered back, my voice steady.
It was then that the commotion started at the end of the aisle.
A murmur rippled through the impeccably dressed guests.
And then I saw him.
A little boy, no older than three, with Dawson’s eyes and a confused pout.
Dawson’s smile didn't falter. It widened.
He turned to me, his grip on my hand tightening, a silent plea.
And then he spoke the words that shattered the last fragile pane of my composure.
"Clarion," he said, his voice resonating with a rehearsed sincerity. "Meet Jamie."
He gently nudged the boy forward.
"Jamie, say hi. Call her 'Mom'."
The world tilted on its axis.
The boy wasn't just a guest. He was a prop.
He was the reason.
And then, as if on cue, the real bride appeared.
Delia Frost, his long-lost love, his 'white moonlight', drifted down the aisle.
She was wearing the gown from my dreams, the one I had bookmarked seven years ago.
The one he had told me was "not quite right for you."
What he meant was, it was never meant for me at all.
§03
Dawson rushed to her side, his movements a blur of practiced devotion.
He wrapped his arms around her as if she were made of spun glass.
Delia leaned into his embrace, her gaze finding mine across the sea of shocked faces.
"Clarion," she murmured, her voice carrying just enough for those nearby to hear. "Thank you. Thank you for being so understanding."
The narrative shifted in an instant.
I wasn’t the jilted bride. I was the obstacle. The third act complication in their epic love story.
Her body trembled, a delicate, theatrical performance of frailty. She made a show of trying to kneel before me.
"Delia!" Dawson's voice was sharp, laced with panic and a fierce, protective love I hadn't heard in years. "Don't you dare degrade yourself like this!"
He caught her, holding her upright, his eyes glaring at me as if I were the one forcing her to the ground.
I said nothing.
A single word would unleash a flood, and I refused to drown in front of them.
I turned and walked down the steps of the altar, each step a fresh agony, a blade twisting in my back.
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The End