Capítulo 2: A Fiancé’s Desperate Lie

After the chaos at St. Patrick’s, Seraphina slipped through a side exit, her borrowed wedding dress skimming the rain-slicked steps.

Behind her, the wail of an ambulance swallowed the last echoes of the cathedral bells. She didn’t look back.

In the dry warmth of the black sedan, she gave the driver a quiet address and pressed her forehead to the cold window, watching Julian Sterling burst through the heavy doors just as the car pulled away. His mouth formed her name, but the glass sealed it into silence.

An hour later, the penthouse suite of The Sterling hummed with filtered air and the distant murmur of the city. Seraphina stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, the skyline a jagged spine of light against the bruised twilight.

The gown still clung to her, its delicate lace now a garment of war. She had just reached for a hanger when the pounding began.

“Seraphina! I know you’re in there.

Open the damn door.” She allowed herself a slow, measured inhale, then crossed the marble floor. The lock clicked.

Julian stumbled inside, a mess of crumpled tuxedo and frantic hope. His hair—usually slicked to perfection—dangled in sweaty strands.

He grabbed her shoulders, his fingers pressing into the bare skin above her collarbone. “Thank God.” His voice quivered.

“I’ve been out of my mind. When I saw you...

I realized it was all a trap. Your father—Harrison told me you were dead.

He threatened to destroy my family if I didn’t marry Peyton. He said it would honor your memory, secure the merger.

I had no choice.” Seraphina looked at him—really looked. The same boyish jaw, the same practiced vulnerability she’d once mistaken for love.

Now all she saw was a ledger of debts and deceits. “You always have a choice, Julian.

You simply never choose me.” He flinched, then softened his grip, moving his hands to cradle her face. “That’s not true.

I love you. I never stopped.

Run away with me. Right now.

We can leave all this—Peyton, your father, the whole rotten circus. Start over.” A laugh, sharp and crystalline, cut through the room.

“Start over? With the same man who embezzled three million from my family’s foundation to cover gambling debts months before I ‘died’?” She watched the color drain from his cheeks.

“Did you think I spent a year in the shadows just knitting by candlelight? I have the offshore account numbers, the forged board signatures, the confidential emails to your bookie.

And I’ve already forwarded the complete file to the SEC.” His hands dropped. The mask of affection crumbled into something darker.

“You’re bluffing.” “Am I?” She stepped back, trailing her fingers along the edge of the marble console. A half-empty champagne bottle sat beside an overturned flute from the afternoon’s aborted celebration.

“The auditors will be at your office by nine a.m. tomorrow.

You’ll be arrested before lunch.” “You vindictive little—” He lunged, grabbing her wrist and wrenching her toward him. “Give me those files, or I’ll make sure you regret ever crawling out of that grave.” Seraphina didn’t struggle.

Instead, her free hand closed around the stem of the broken champagne flute—its jagged edge gleaming like a predator’s tooth. She brought it up between them, the point pressing into the soft hollow of his throat.

Julian froze. “Touch me again,” she whispered, “and I’ll carve your carotid.

I’ve been dead once, Julian. Fear left me in that ravine.” The room fell still.

Outside, a siren wailed past. Julian’s Adam’s apple bobbed against the glass.

His fingers loosened, then retreated. He took a shaky step backward, his eyes never leaving the shard in her hand.

“You’re insane,” he breathed. “No.

I’m free.” She let the glass drop. It shattered on the marble, a sharp punctuation.

“Now get out of my sight before I add attempted assault to the federal charges.” He stumbled toward the door, his polished veneer stripped to raw hatred. As the door slammed, Seraphina turned back to the window, pressing her palm against the cool glass to steady the tremors.

Ten seconds. That was all the weakness she allowed.

Outside, in the plush corridor, Gideon Sterling removed his ear from the door and slipped his phone back into his jacket. The silver-haired financier had recorded every word—the embezzlement confession, the threat, the breaking glass.

His nephew had just handed him the weapon to dismantle the Sterling family’s rotten core and, perhaps, to forge an unholy alliance with the woman who held the knife. His thin smile widened as he walked away.

Seraphina Blackwood, it seemed, was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

My Sister Stole My Fiancé — But He’s Not Even the Real Heir

My Sister Stole My Fiancé — But He’s Not Even the Real Heir

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