The Wrong Bride

Carrington Square bustled with the usual hum of luxury—heels clicking on polished marble, the faint scent of expensive perfume, and murmured conversations of the wealthy, who spent money like it meant nothing. For Irene, it was just another exhausting day at work, serving customers who barely acknowledged her existence.  

“I want that dress,” a woman dressed in head-to-toe designer commanded, barely glancing at her. “And that one. Oh, and that one too. Just give me everything on this rack.”  

“Yes, ma’am.” Irene forced a polite smile, exchanging a glance with her best friend and coworker, Jules. Today was their lucky day—if this sale went through, they’d hit the monthly target and finally earn their much-needed bonuses.  

The woman waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll try them on.”  

“Of course, ma’am,” they chorused, leading her to the fitting room.  

Everything was going smoothly—until it wasn’t.  

Jules, packing up the rejected clothes, suddenly gasped. “Irene... Irene, we have a problem,” she whispered in panic.  

Irene, who was assisting another customer, excused herself and hurried over. “What’s wrong?”  

Jules held up a dress—an expensive designer piece—its delicate fabric torn near the seam.  

Irene’s stomach dropped.  

“She did this,” Jules whispered, glancing nervously at the fitting rooms. “What do we do?”  

Irene sighed. “She’ll have to pay for the damage.”  

Jules paled. “Irene, no. She’s one of those customers. She made me leave the fitting room while she changed.”  

“She still has to take responsibility.” Irene squared her shoulders and approached the woman.  

“Excuse me, ma’am.”  

The woman turned, looking down at her. “Are you here with my bill?”  

Irene hesitated. “There’s just one small issue… One of the dresses you tried on is torn.”  

The woman’s expression turned icy. “And?”  

Irene swallowed. “Well… we believe the damage happened while you were trying it on, so—”  

A sharp crack echoed through the store.  

Irene’s head snapped to the side, her cheek burning.  

A slap.  

Gasps rippled through the boutique as all eyes turned to them.  

“How dare you accuse me?” the woman shrieked. “Do you even know who I am?”  

Jules rushed to Irene’s side, gripping her arm. “Are you okay?”  

Irene blinked, her ears ringing. The humiliation burned worse than the pain, but she refused to back down.  

“I’m not accusing you, ma’am. I’m simply stating the fact—”  

“Where is your manager?” the woman interrupted. “I will not stand for this insult!”  

The store manager, Penelope, chose that exact moment to return from her “lunch break.” She bustled over, out of breath. “Mrs. Beaumont, I’m so sorry—what happened?”  

The woman eyed her with disdain. “Who are you?”  

“Penelope, the store manager,” she answered quickly, straightening her blouse.  

“You should be apologizing,” Mrs. Beaumont snapped. “Your staff dared to accuse me of ruining a dress.”  

Penelope’s face drained of color. “Oh, no, no, ma’am. I deeply apologize for their behavior.” She turned and shot Irene and Jules a sharp glare.  

“Apologize. Now.”  

Jules wasted no time. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”  

Irene’s pride screamed at her to refuse. She hadn’t done anything wrong. But when she glanced at Penelope’s murderous expression, she knew she had no choice.  

“…I’m sorry, ma’am.”  

Mrs. Beaumont scoffed. “Because of this nonsense, I won’t be buying anything today.”  

With that, she stormed out, leaving Penelope scrambling after her with more apologies.  

Jules sighed. “Irene, I’m so sorry. I should’ve checked the dress before handing it back.”  

“It’s fine,” Irene muttered, even though her cheek still burned. “Let’s just get back to work.”  

Minutes later, Penelope returned, her lips pursed in anger.  

“Irene. My office. Now.”  

Jules winced. “Here we go again.”  

Irene exhaled and followed Penelope into the cramped office.  

“What the hell were you thinking?” Penelope snapped as soon as the door closed. “Why didn’t you call me? You almost lost your job today!”  

“You tell us not to disturb you on your lunch breaks,” Irene said dryly, making a not-so-subtle gesture.  

Penelope’s eyes narrowed. “Watch your mouth. Next time, call me before speaking to a customer like that. Understand?”  

“Yes,” Irene muttered.  

“And put some ice on that cheek. We don’t want to scare away customers.”  

Irene clenched her jaw and left without another word.  

As soon as she stepped back into the store, she spotted Jules staring at something—or rather, someone.  

Her stomach sank.  

Badur.  

The loan shark stood near the entrance, arms crossed, his scarred face twisted in amusement. His sharp eyes locked onto her.  

“What the hell is he doing here?” Irene whispered.  

Jules shook her head. “I don’t know, but be careful.”  

Irene took a deep breath and approached him. “What do you want?” she asked in a low voice.  

“Hey, baby girl,” he drawled, reaching out to touch her face.  

She slapped his hand away.  

His expression darkened instantly.  

Rough stubble covered his square jaw, and his black shirt clung tightly to his muscular frame. A jagged scar ran down his cheek—a permanent reminder of the kind of man he was.  

Badur grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward the back of the store.  

“Let go of me!” Irene hissed, but he only tightened his grip.  

He dragged her into the men’s restroom, shoving her against the cold tile wall. Two of his lackeys blocked the door.  

Irene’s heart pounded.  

“What do you want, Badur?” she demanded.  

He smirked. “Your daddy’s been borrowing money again.”  

Irene’s blood turned to ice.  

“No. No, that’s not my problem. I haven’t seen that man in five years—”  

Badur’s fist slammed into the wall beside her head.  

She let out a scream.  

With a wicked grin, he raised his bloodied hand and pressed his fingers against her cheek, then slowly wipes the blood onto her uniform.  

“Five thousand dollars. Next week.”  

“Where the hell am I supposed to get that?”  

He chuckled darkly. “Figure it out, baby girl.”  

Then, as suddenly as they had come, they were gone.  

Irene collapsed onto the floor, her breath coming in sharp gasps.  

Her father had disappeared years ago, but somehow, he was still ruining her life.  

After a few moments, she forced herself to stand. Her hands trembled as she scrubbed at the bloodstain on her uniform in the women’s restroom sink.  

It wouldn’t come off.  

She let out a shaky breath and turned to leave—  

And crashed straight into someone.  

“Oh, I’m sorry—”  

Her words died in her throat.  

The woman in front of her stared back, w

ide-eyed.  

Irene’s pulse pounded as she took in the sight.  

Her breath caught.

It was like looking into a mirror.

Same face. Same eyes. Same everything.

What the hell?