Sophia Hale stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror of her tiny sewing studio, the hum of the ancient machine her only companion. Six years. That's how long she'd poured her soul into this life—this lie—for him. Ethan Blackwood, the man she'd met in a dingy coffee shop on a rainy New York afternoon. He was all sharp jawline, ambitious fire, and empty pockets back then. "I don't need money," he'd said, eyes sparkling. "Just someone who believes in me."
She'd believed. Oh, how she'd believed.
But Sophia Hale wasn't who she pretended to be. Beneath the faded jeans and threadbare sweaters was Sophia Vanderbilt, heiress to a $50 billion empire built on tech patents and global real estate. Her father, the late magnate Reginald Vanderbilt, had died when she was 20, leaving her a fortune larger than most countries' GDPs. Yet, craving real love—not the gold-digger kind—she'd hidden it all. Faked a modest upbringing, buried the trusts, and emerged as "Sophia the seamstress." A test: Would Ethan love her, or her wallet?
For six years, it seemed he did. She funded his startup dreams with "savings" from her sewing gigs—actually funneled from anonymous Vanderbilt accounts. Turned his flops into Blackwood Tech, now valued at $500 million pre-IPO. She stitched gowns for elite clients by day, cooked his favorites by night, and dreamed of tomorrow: their wedding.
The gown hung pristine behind her—ivory silk, hand-embroidered with golden threads forming their intertwined initials: S & E Forever. A masterpiece worth $100,000, sewn in stolen hours. "Perfect," she whispered, fingers tracing the fabric. Invitations had gone out to 200 guests: investors, fake friends, her scheming stepsister Lila. No real family—Sophia had cut Vanderbilt ties to keep her secret.
Her phone buzzed. Ethan: Home soon, babe. Big news! Love you. 💕
A smile cracked her exhaustion. She'd skipped lunch again, body aching from 16-hour days. But tonight? Pre-wedding dinner at their penthouse—their penthouse, bought with her "loans." Romance, champagne, maybe that ring upgrade he'd hinted at.
She packed her tools, locked up, and hailed a cab to Manhattan's skyline. The city lights blurred past, a glittering promise. At 28, she felt ancient, but tomorrow? Mrs. Ethan Blackwood. Forever.
The elevator dinged to the 50th floor. Key in lock—why was the door ajar? "Ethan? Early bird?"
No answer. But sounds: Low moans, rhythmic thuds from the master bedroom. Heart pounding, Sophia crept forward, bridesmaid heels silent on marble.
The door was cracked. She peeked—and the world shattered.
Ethan, her Ethan, naked and glistening with sweat, thrust powerfully into... Lila. Her stepsister. Fake blonde waves splayed on their Egyptian cotton sheets. Lila's red nails raked his back, legs wrapped like vines.
"Fuck, Lila—you're so much tighter than Sophia ever was," Ethan growled, pace brutal. "Those poor-girl moans? Boring."
Lila giggled, voice honeyed venom. "Told you, baby. Marry her tomorrow like planned? Daddy's firm will back your IPO if I'm on your arm post-ceremony."
Ethan laughed, flipping her over doggy-style. "Pity fuck at the altar, then divorce the hag. Her 'savings' are tapped anyway. We've got real power now."
Sophia burst in, gift bag crashing. Vases exploded in shards. "Ethan?!"
He froze mid-thrust, yanking out lazily. No shame—just annoyance. Cock still hard, glistening. "Sophia. You're early. Give us a minute?"
Lila didn't cover up. Perky fake tits on display, she lounged like a queen. "Oopsie. Family reunion, step-sis? Door was open."
Sophia's knees buckled. Six years flashed: Late nights nursing his failures, sewing his first pitch suit from scraps, the time she sold her "family heirloom" necklace (a $2M ruby) for his office lease. Doctor visits she'd hidden—fatigue from overwork masking the cancer diagnosis just last week. Stage IV, metastatic. Months, maybe weeks.
"You... tomorrow? Our wedding?" Voice cracked, raw.
Ethan pulled on boxers, smirking. "Wedding? To you? Wake up, Sophia. You're the convenient fiancée—the broke seamstress who funded my rise. Useful, sure. But Lila? She's the upgrade. Her dad's connections seal my billions. You're... yesterday's news."
Lila traced his abs. "Pathetic, really. Pouring your everything into this loser? He mocked your 'sacrifices' every time he fucked me. Stepford wife vibes."
Tears scorched. Betrayal clawed deeper than any tumor. "After everything... my heart, my life..."
Ethan shrugged. "Heart? It was a transaction. You gave; I took. End of story."
But the pain twisted her resolve. One last stand. "Ethan... I'm dying. Cancer. Doctors gave weeks. One last wish: Marry me tomorrow. Fulfill the vows. Then... I'll disappear. Forever."
Silence. Lila snorted. "Dramatic much?"
Ethan's eyes flickered—pity? Calculation? "Fine. One last pity ceremony. Seal it, say bye. Happy now?"
Sophia nodded, numb. Fled to the bathroom, locked it. Sobs wracked. Phone out—oncologist line. "Double the experimental trial. Now."
But as she splashed water, hiding the Vanderbilt ring on her toe (emergency signal), a fire ignited. They think I'm weak? Done.
Wedding tomorrow. But death? That was their illusion.
Not hers.