My Sister Tried On My Wedding Dress to Stole My Fiancé While I Was Dying in ICU room

The next four weeks were a masterclass in deception.

To the world, I was the tragic heiress fighting through physical therapy to walk down the aisle.

I spent hours every day in rehab, leaning on the parallel bars, pushing through the agonizing pain in my legs. Derek played the devoted fiancé when the cameras were around, pushing my wheelchair out of the hospital.

But at night, my penthouse became a war room.

Julian Vance visited through the private service elevator.

While Derek was out "working late"—which my private investigator confirmed meant sleeping with Sloane in a hotel downtown—Julian and I were working.

"Here are the final transfers," Julian said one Tuesday night, laying a stack of heavy legal documents on my dining table.

I sat in my wheelchair, a glass of expensive bourbon in my hand.

"Once you sign these," Julian explained, "your entire trust is rerouted into the Vance-Mercer Holding Corporation. Derek is listed as the executor of the old trust, which will contain exactly one dollar."

I took the pen. The metal felt cold and powerful in my hand.

"What about his firm?" I asked, signing my name with a flourish.

Julian poured himself a glass of bourbon. "I bought the debt on his studio yesterday. He owes me fifty million dollars. He has no idea his mysterious new creditor is me."

I looked at Julian. The dynamic between us had shifted over the weeks. It wasn't just a business transaction anymore. There was a dangerous, magnetic pull between us.

He had seen me at my absolute worst—broken, weeping in pain during physical therapy—and he had never looked at me with pity. He only looked at me with respect.

"You look beautiful tonight, Elena," Julian said suddenly, his eyes dropping to my silk robe.

My breath caught. "I'm in a wheelchair, Julian."

He walked around the table, kneeling beside me so we were eye to level.

"A queen on a throne is still a queen," he murmured. He reached up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His touch sent a jolt of electricity down my spine that had nothing to do with my injured nerves.

"Tomorrow is the rehearsal dinner," I whispered, leaning slightly into his hand.

"Are you ready?" he asked.