The Billionaire's Dead Wife Returned

TER

ar

e thousand and n

the world believe

aisle in perfect symmetry, their fragrance mingling with the fai

le the country's wealthiest families filled every seat, exchanging polite smiles and whispe

quietly in the third row, dressed from head to toe in black. M

'd returned to burn down something far more valuable th

as ever. At thirty-two, he was still the youngest billionaire CEO in the country, a man whose name alone cou

haustion no amount of money could hide. His face looked sharper than I remembered, as though sleep had beco

, dangerous

n'

to remember the last one. The organ began to play. The heavy ca

hat shimmered beneath the lights. A long veil framed her smiling face as she walked ar

o. Or maybe... She knew. Maybe she'd simply decided that billionaires came with complicated histories. The priest smi

f a chair cut thro

i

pped speaking.

is she?" "Is she from the bride's family?" "Why is she wearing black to a wedding?" The bride frowned, tightening her grip on her bouquet as she watched me walk toward the altar. My heels echoed steadily against the marble

never she laughed. Mine rested just above my shoulders now. Three years had straightened my posture, hardened my expression, and erased

d. The color disappeared from his face. "...Sara." He barely breathed my name. But in the silence... Everyone heard it. For years, I'd imagined this moment. I thought watching him panic would make me feel victorious. Instead... It felt strangely empty. No. Not empty. Incomplete. Because fear wasn't enough. He needed to suffer. The same way I had. I smiled. "You forgot to invite your first wife." The bride's bouquet slipped from her fingers and hit the floor. A champagne glass shattered somewhere behind me. Guests rose from their seats, some staring at me, others staring at Damien, everyone desperately trying to understand how a dead woman had just walked into a wedding. I closed the remaining distance between us until only