Love and Revenge of the Lost Billionaire

Freya's POV

The mirror in the bridal suite reflected a stranger in white.

I stood motionless, hands hovering over the delicate lace of my gown as if afraid to touch it too hard and make the dream disappear. The dress was everything I imagined since I was sixteen—ivory satin hugging my waist, layers of tulle falling like soft clouds to the floor, off-the-shoulder sleeves that left my collarbones bare. The veil, pinned with tiny seed pearls, framed my face like a halo.

Ten years, I thought, a quiet smile tugging at my lips. Ten years of waiting for this exact moment.

I remembered the first time Dylan Voss kissed me behind the bleachers after the homecoming game. it was awkward, and sweet. I remembered the nights he’d driven me home after my stepmother Elaine had screamed at me for breathing too loudly, how he’d parked under the streetlight and held me until the shaking stopped. I remembered the way he looked at me when he proposed on one knee in the little park where we used to meet, ring trembling in his hand, voice cracking as he said, “I want forever with you, Frey.”

My family had never understood. Elaine, my step mom favored Helene—the golden stepsister who they all say brings “good luck” with her beauty and modeling gigs. Tristan, my father, stayed silent in the background, offering nothing but cold distance. But Dylan had been my safe place. My proof that someone could choose her.

Today, that proof became permanent.

My smile faltered for just a second.

Mom should have been here.

My mom, Selena Lennox, had died when I was fourteen—sudden, and quiet, the doctors calling it “heart failure” without explanation. After that, everything changed. Elaine took over the house like she owned it, favoring Helene in every way—new clothes, modeling lessons, praise that dripped like honey. I became the shadow: the one who cleaned up after Helene’s tantrums, the one who heard “You’re just like your mother—weak” whenever I spoke up. My father, Tristan, retreated further into silence, never defending me, never once saying my name with warmth.

Only my grandmother—Mom’s mother—had ever truly seen me. Bedridden now for years, frail and fading in a small room in the hospital. Grandma still managed to hold my hand during visits and whisper, “You’re strong, my girl. Stronger than they know.” I had spent countless nights sitting by her bed, reading aloud, brushing her silver hair, promising, “One day I’ll make sure she's fine and able to walk again.”

I touched the heirloom necklace at my throat—the

delicate gold locket my mother had worn every day. Inside was a tiny photo of baby me in my mom's arms. I closed my eyes.

I wish you could see me today, Mom. I wish you were here to walk me down the aisle instead of him. I wish Grandma could stand up, even for a second, and watch me marry the man who promised to take care of me.

I imagined them both smiling from somewhere beyond—mom proud, Grandma clapping her thin hands. The thought warmed me enough to steady my breathing.

Today, everything changes. No more being invisible. No more being the leftover Lennox. Today, I become his wife…

A soft knock pulled me from my thought.

“Freya?” My father’s voice came through the door—low, and formal, the way he always spoke to me. “It’s time.”

I smoothed my palms down the front of the gown one last time, took a steadying breath, and opened the door.

My Dad stood there in his charcoal suit, looking older than I remembered. His eyes flicked over my dress, then away. “You look… Great.”

It wasn’t praise, but coming from him it was close enough.

I smiled anyway. “Thank you, Dad.”

He offered his arm. I slipped my hand through it, the silk of his sleeve cool against my skin. Together we walked down the long corridor toward the ballroom.

Emeralda City’s most exclusive venue glittered under crystal chandeliers. The guest list was obscene—fashion executives, billionaires, socialites, brand representatives whose names appeared in glossy magazines. They turned as I entered, murmurs of admiration rippling through the crowd.

“She looks like a princess.”

“Ten years. Dylan Voss finally locked her down.”

“Awwn…she's so lucky to have someone like Dylan in her life.”

I kept my chin high, smile fixed. The music swelled—Pachelbel’s Canon in D, soft strings filling the room. My heart hammered so hard I was sure everyone could hear it.

Today is the day.

My Dad led me down the petal-strewn aisle. Guests stood. Cameras flashed discreetly.

And then I reached the altar.

The officiant smiled warmly.

The string quartet softened to a hush.

I turned, eyes searching for Dylan.

He wasn’t there.

The smile faltered on my lips.

A few seconds passed. Then minutes. He's not here yet.

The officiant cleared his throat. “Perhaps he’s running late…”

Whispers began, quiet at first, then spreading like wildfire.

“Where’s the groom?”

“Did he just… leave her?”

“Poor thing—left at the altar.”

“Maybe he doesn’t even love her and she's the one forcing him. Now he ran away.”

My cheeks burned. I looked at my father—his jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the empty spot where Dylan should have been. My stepmom sat in the front row, lips curved in the smallest, cruelest smile. Helene wasn't here either.

The murmurs grew louder. Someone gave a soft, and mean laugh.

My vision blurred. The gown that had felt like a dream now felt like a cage. My chest squeezed painfully until I couldn’t breathe.

Could he really leave me?

He wouldn’t do this. Not Dylan. Not after everything.

But the minutes kept ticking.

And he still wasn’t there.

My heart started racing faster than ever.

Humiliation clawed up my throat. I couldn’t stand there another second while the entire city watched me fall apart.

I need to find him.

Without a word, I lifted my skirts and hurried back down the aisle—past the shocked faces, past the flashing phones, past my father’s outstretched hand. I didn’t stop until I reached the private suites upstairs.

I had to find him.

I had to know why.

Maybe he's in the toilet or bathroom.

Yes. That should be the reason.

The hallway was quiet except for the distant hum of the reception below. I moved quickly, heels clicking on marble, until I reached Helene’s preparation room.

And then I heard it.

Low moans. Rhythmic thuds against the wall. A woman’s gasp, a man’s groan.

My stomach dropped. It was Helene’s room.

I pushed the door open with just a crack.

The room was bathed in the warm light of bedside lamps. And there, on the king-sized bed draped in silk sheets, was Dylan—naked, entangled with a woman whose long auburn hair spilled across the pillows, his hips driving into her with hard, deliberate thrusts. The woman’s head was thrown back, mouth open in pleasure, nails raking down his back.

My mouth fell open. My breath caught in my throat as recognition dawned. It was Helene. My step sister. My own flesh and blood, writhing beneath Dylan. their bodies slick with sweat, lost in a frenzy of passion.

My chest squeezed painfully at the sight.

They didn’t notice me.

Not at first.

I stood frozen, the world narrowing to the sight of my fiancé buried inside my stepsister—on our wedding day.

The moan that escaped her throat was small, and broken.

But it was enough.

Helene’s eyes flicked open. A slow, wicked smile curled her lips.

“Well,” she purred, not bothering to stop moving against Dylan. “Look who finally showed up.”

Dylan glanced over his shoulder—still thrusting—his expression cold, and amused.

“Freya,” he said, almost casually. “You’re early.”