Anastasia’s POV Later that evening........... The makeup was already done. Every stroke perfectly in place — the soft blush brushed across my cheeks, the subtle glow above my cheekbones, the delicate shimmer of gold on my lids. My lips, painted in the most daring red I owned, matched the undertone of the dress I hadn’t even worn yet. My hair had been pinned into a loose, romantic style hours ago. A few soft curls trailed down, resting over one shoulder, framing my face like I was a portrait — elegant, composed, untouchable. I looked like someone who belonged in the spotlight. Someone who was ready. But I wasn’t. I stood quietly in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, wrapped in a robe the color of champagne. The silk clung gently to my skin, slipping against my collarbones and arms with every shallow breath. It should have felt luxurious — warm, comforting even — but instead, it felt heavy. Too smooth. Like it wasn’t mine. I hadn’t moved in five minutes. I just stood
Sheila's POV Ava's voice came back in, bright and smooth — though I could hear the slight tremble she tried to hide. "And that," she said with a soft laugh, blinking back what had to be tears, "was just a little teaser prepared for tonight." Polite applause broke out again, though it was thinner now — like people didn’t quite know how to react. I barely had time to process the words when suddenly — The entire venue suddenly went dark. A few gasps rippled through the crowd, some laughter. The chandeliers dimmed to nothing, and the only light that remained was a single spotlight shining down on Regan. He looked up, startled, his body tensing under the sudden attention. And then — The grand double doors at the entrance swung open. A gasp — a real, collective one — swept through the room. A grand, towering cake was being wheeled in slowly, covered in golden designs and intricate sugar flowers, sparkling under the soft moving lights. It was breathtaking, regal — fit for royalty. But
Sheila's POVSoon after, the music faded into a soft, lingering note, and as the artist bowed and left the stage, polite applause followed him. I reached for my glass of wine, my fingers wrapping tightly around the stem.I took a slow sip, letting the rich, fruity taste settle on my tongue.Then Ava’s voice rang out again, pulling all attention back to the stage. She smiled brightly, the spotlight hitting the soft waves of her hair and the shimmer of her gown."Wow, what a beautiful way to start the night. But don't get too comfortable — we’re just getting started."The crowd chuckled, some clapping again, while the servers floated through the tables offering more champagne. I tightened my grip around the wine glass. My throat was dry despite the drink."And now," Ava continued, "we have a little something extra — something made with a lot of love, effort, and a few sleepless nights."The guests leaned forward slightly, curious. I already knew what was coming next. Ava’s gaze scanned
Sheila's POV"And of course," she said, her voice smooth as velvet, her smile never leaving her face, "this night would not be complete without the man of the hour — our celebrant. Please give a warm welcome to Regan Del Valle!"The spotlight shifted across the grand hall, focusing now on the center of the entrance arch. And there he was.Regan Del Valle.He stepped forward slowly, every movement controlled, measured — like he was walking a tightrope no one else could see. He wore an immaculate black suit with a subtle charcoal sheen that caught the light just enough to look almost royal. The crisp white shirt underneath was sharp, his black tie perfectly knotted.He looked like the perfect image of the Del Valle heir — tall, polished, devastatingly handsome.But cold. So, so cold.From where I stood, I could see it clearly — the sadness in his eyes. The way he blinked just a little too slowly, as if trying to wake himself up from a nightmare he couldn't escape. His jaw was clenched,
Sheila's POVAva’s voice lifted with grace and pride. "And now, let us take a moment to recognize one of the pillars of tonight’s celebration — a family known for their quiet strength, timeless grace, and unwavering values. The heart of the Montreal legacy — please welcome the Montreal family."The applause picked up immediately, warm and enthusiastic. I turned, watching as the arched gate opened at the back of the room. And just like that, they stepped into view — not just as guests, but as something greater.Don Alonso came first.He moved with slow but steady steps, his silver hair gleaming under the chandeliers. He wore a classic gray suit, perfectly pressed, with a carved wooden cane in one hand. His face, though lined with age, carried authority. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t need to. His presence alone demanded respect.Beside him walked Gregory, Anastasia’s father, looking solemn in a black three-piece suit. His expression was unreadable — calm, yes, but distant. Like he wasn
Sheila’s POVMy hands wouldn’t stop shaking.I stood quietly inside the Valmont Pavilion, trying to calm the wild beating of my heart, but it was useless. Every time I glanced around the room, the weight of what was about to happen crashed down even harder.The Valmont Pavilion was breathtaking tonight — the kind of place that belonged in glossy magazines. It was known as the most expensive, most exclusive venue in the city. The kind that didn’t need advertising — its name alone opened doors only the elite could enter.The high ceilings were draped with soft ivory fabrics that seemed to float effortlessly above the guests, like silk clouds suspended in air. Dozens of crystal chandeliers hung from above, casting a golden glow over the entire space, making the room shimmer. The polished marble floors reflected the light in soft glimmers, while round tables lined with white linens and gold accents were arranged around the wide dance floor in perfect symmetry. Everything sparkled. Everyth
I clenched the edges of my robe tighter, like holding it together could somehow keep me from falling apart.Regan and I met two years ago. But for a year—he ignored me. Acted like I was just a stranger. It wasn’t until one drunken night that it started again. And I let the world believe we had been rekindled ever since. I needed them to believe this was a long game. Because if they knew the truth… I’d have nothing.All of a sudden, the last time I saw Anastasia in their mansion flashed in my mind. In their bedroom. She stood in the doorway—silent, pale, eyes wide with betrayal. She saw me there, naked under the sheets with Regan. It was the kind of scene anyone would misread. Hell, I wanted her to misread it.But the worst part? Nothing even happened. Not that day. Not that night. Not ever since. After she left, Regan didn’t say a word to me. Didn’t explain. Didn’t argue. He just… got dressed, walked out, and disappeared for nearly a week. No calls. No texts. Not even to check if I wa
That voice—it wasn’t the one I knew. Not the Regan who made promises. Not the man who once told me he’d marry me if we ever meet again. This Regan… this one looked at me like I was a mistake he couldn’t erase.My chest tightened like a vice was around it. So, I did what I always did. I tried to smile. But deep inside, I realized something I didn’t want to admit.He didn’t love me. Not anymore.“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Regan said quietly, already stepping away.But I wasn’t done. I couldn’t be done.“No,” I snapped, chasing after him, grabbing his arm before he could walk out. “You don’t get to walk away from me again. Not this time, Regan.”He stopped, but didn’t face me.“You said you’d marry me—don’t act like I made that up! You said you loved me. You said I was it for you!”“That was years ago, Zarina.”Yeah. He’s right. God, he’s right. I keep dragging that version of him into every fight, every plea. I keep making him say it—that he loves me. Like if I force the
Zarina’s POVI stared at myself in the mirror, biting back the lump in my throat.God, I looked tired.My makeup was still intact, but my eyes—those gave me away. There was something desperate in them now, something I hated admitting even to myself. The silk robe I wore clung to my skin, soft and dangerous, slipping just enough off my shoulder to make it look like an accident. I adjusted it slightly, not too much. Let him notice.He had to notice.I walked out of the bedroom, my bare feet silent against the floor as I made my way to his office. The door was ajar. Typical. He hated being disturbed, but never locked anything. I leaned on the doorframe, watching him for a moment.“What are you doing?”No response.Figures.Regan’s office looked exactly like him—organized, cold. The walls were this muted gray-blue, shelves lined with leather-bound books, and a single art piece on the far wall—a black and white photograph of some mountain range he said he liked. His desk was the only thing