The Billionaire's Broken Bride

Ariana POV I never thought I’d be the kind of woman who cries over a wedding dress. But earlier tonight, when I hung it carefully by the window of my hotel suite, I felt tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. Not from sadness. Just... joy. Tomorrow, I would finally marry the man I loved. After years of late nights, missed calls, and sacrifices, we were here. Everything was ready. The flowers, the venue, the playlist, the dress. Even the weather forecast looked perfect. Miguel Santos. Just thinking of his name made my chest swell. He wasn’t the most expressive man — often buried in meetings or glued to his phone — but I knew he loved me. In his own quiet way. He always reminded me to eat when I skipped meals, drove me to my events when I was too tired, and kissed my forehead after every argument, even the ones he clearly didn’t understand. For a man like him, that was love. My phone buzzed beside the bed. A message from Camille. > “Just left Miguel’s unit. Forgot

When I opened my eyes the next morning, for a brief moment, I forgot everything. I forgot I wasn’t in my hotel room. Forgot the wedding that would never happen. Forgot the betrayal, the bar, and the man who offered me a deal in the middle of the night like it was nothing more than a business transaction. The room was massive. Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Curtains drawn just enough to let in the soft light of morning. Everything smelled clean—expensive, even the air. I was lying on a bed that didn’t feel like mine, wrapped in sheets that probably cost more than my entire bridal gown. Reality hit seconds later. I sat up quickly, clutching the blanket to my chest, though I was still wearing the dress from last night. I wasn’t alone. There was no one in the room, but something about the silence made it feel like he was still watching. Ethan Navarro. That name didn’t feel real yesterday. Now it sat on my tongue like a weight I couldn’t spit out. He had brought me her

I didn’t sleep. Not because the bed was uncomfortable. But because silence was louder than any storm. Ethan’s penthouse was too quiet. Too perfect. Not a single clock ticked. Not a single shadow moved. Just me—lying there, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember who I used to be before all of this. The girl who believed in love. The girl who thought marriage was sacred. The girl who never imagined she’d end up in a stranger’s home, wearing his ring and pretending it meant nothing. I rose at dawn, barefoot on cold marble floors. The guest room Ethan gave me was luxurious. Cream and gold palette. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A walk-in closet that could swallow my entire old apartment. But I hated it. Because none of it was mine. I opened the balcony doors and stepped outside, letting the morning breeze sting my skin. The city was still half asleep. The streets below looked tiny, like toy roads beneath glass. How could everything feel so big and so

I wasn’t the kind of woman who let things go anymore. The old Ariana might’ve curled up in fear, blinded by love or obligation. But the woman Ethan Navarro married—whether he liked it or not—was someone forged by betrayal. I had scars, but they didn’t make me weak. They made me sharper. And now, I was going to use every blade. My phone buzzed quietly as I sat in the café, hidden in a corner booth in Makati. It was an upscale place, the kind where old-money women in designer sunglasses clinked coffee cups and gossiped behind diamond-studded smiles. A place I once belonged to. But today, I wasn’t here for idle chatter. I was waiting for answers. “Ma’am Ariana,” a soft voice interrupted my thoughts. I looked up to see Liza, one of the few people from my old circle who hadn’t turned their back on me when my engagement to Miguel imploded. She slid into the seat across from me, tucking her Hermès bag beside her. “You’re lucky I owe you one,” she said, brushing a strand of her balayag

I hated how I could still feel his presence, even when he wasn’t touching me. Ethan stood a few feet away, but the weight of his stare burned through my skin like fire. His jaw was tight, and his eyes—those cold, unreadable eyes—were locked on mine as if he could read every thought in my head. Unfortunately for me, most of those thoughts weren’t the kind I wanted him to know. “I told you,” he said slowly, voice like a blade, “not to go digging into things that don’t concern you.” “But it does concern me,” I shot back, stepping closer before I could stop myself. “She was your ex. She died under suspicious circumstances. And now, someone’s sending me anonymous messages, warning me about you. That concerns me, Ethan.” A flicker of something passed in his expression—guilt, maybe? Pain? But just as quickly, it vanished. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I laughed bitterly. “Of course I don’t. You never tell me anything.” He took a slow step toward me. I didn’t back away.