The Tycoon's Contract Bride

Celeste's POV

Five years. I spent five fucking years pouring my soul, my sweat, and every single dime I had into Celeste’s Confections, only to watch my entire life get set on fire in a span of three hours.

Standing in the middle of the grand ballroom of the Zenith Hotel, surrounded by glittering chandeliers and cold, fake smiles from high-society snobs, my chest feels like it’s being crushed by a hydraulic press. I’m staring at a massive, three-tier wedding cake—the exact same red velvet recipe I spent weeks perfecting—while my fiancé, Mark Vance, stands at the altar.

Only, he isn't marrying me.

Beside him is Vivian Montgomery, the daughter of the multi-millionaire real estate developer who supposedly "invested" in my bakery last year. Right. Invested. Now the brutal puzzle pieces are snapping together in my head. The sudden expansion loans, the endless delays on my solo permit approvals, the sudden coldness in Mark’s eyes whenever I talked about our future—it was all a setup. They didn't just back my business; they bought it out from under me, and they bought the man I loved right along with it.

"Look at her," a woman whispers near the buffet table, her diamond-encrusted bracelet clinking against a champagne flute. "The pastry chef. Rumor has it she begged Mark to let her cater her own replacement party just to get a glimpse of him one last time. How pathetic."

"Desperate," her companion scoffs, hiding a snicker behind a manicured hand. "Some people just don't know when they're out of their league."

My fingers dig so hard into the cardboard box of leftover frosting spatulas in my hands that my knuckles turn ghostly white. Every drop of blood in my body is rushing to my ears. I want to scream. I want to hurl this entire heavy wooden crate straight at Mark’s smug, tailored tuxedo. But before I can even take a step forward, two security guards in stiff black suits materialize on either side of me, their massive frames effectively boxing me in.

"Miss Harrington," one of them murmurs, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. "Mr. Vance left strict instructions. Your presence is no longer required on the premises. Management asks that you clear out your storage unit in the back alley immediately."

They don't even wait for my answer. They literally herd me backward, guiding my stumbling heels away from the sparkling lights of the reception hall, down the service corridors, and right out the heavy glass back doors into the freezing, relentless downtown rain.

The heavy metal door slams shut behind me with a sickening thud, cutting off the muffled sound of a string quartet playing a cheerful wedding waltz.

The cold autumn wind hits my bare arms like a slap. Within seconds, the downpour soaks through my thin silk blouse, plastering my hair against my cheeks and mixing with the hot, bitter tears streaming down my face. I'm standing right in the middle of a muddy alleyway behind the hotel, clutching a single cardboard box containing a few metal whisks, an offset spatula, and a framed photo of me and Mark taken back when we were still broke college students dreaming of owning a shop together.

A cruel joke. The whole thing was a fucking joke.

My phone buzzes violently in my pocket. With shaking, freezing fingers, I pull it out. A notification lights up the cracked screen: an email from the city commercial registry.

Notice of Eviction and Revocation of Business License.

Property ownership transferred in full to Mark Vance & Associates.

Outstanding balance due to commercial bank: $85,000.

My knees buckle. I slide down the slick brick wall of the alley, landing hard in a puddle of dirty rainwater that instantly ruins my favorite designer heels. Eighty-five thousand dollars in debt. No shop. No boyfriend. No home, because I stupidly used my apartment lease deposit to buy a commercial-grade industrial mixer last month, trusting Mark when he said “We’re a team, babe, what’s mine is yours.”

How could I have been so blindingly, stupidly naive?

"Get up, Celeste," I whisper to myself, my teeth chattering so hard I can barely form the words. "You survived your parents dying when you were nineteen. You can survive a cheating bastard with a cheap haircut."

Except my chest hurts so badly I can barely draw breath. The rain is coming down harder now, washing the makeup down my face, turning me into a pathetic, shivering wreck in the shadows of a five-star hotel where people are drinking vintage wine to celebrate my utter destruction.

I force myself up, my legs shaking violently. I can't stay here in this filthy alley. I need to move, find a cab, find any cheap motel where I can figure out how to piece together the shattered remains of my existence.

With my box clutched tightly against my chest, I stumble out of the alleyway and onto the blinding, neon-lit avenue, my vision completely blurred by tears as I step blindly off the curb into the rushing stream of evening traffic.