VANESSA BELMONT
Smirking, the Evil Twins sauntered into the venue. I eyed the guards. Then I walked straight to the life-sized photo of me and Nathan in a we're-getting-married embrace. I pointed to my own face. "I'm the bride-to-be."
The guards studied the wedding portrait for way too long. Then they looked at me. Both shook their heads. "Nah," said the shorter one. "You're not her."
"What? Are you kidding me?" I planted myself next to life-sized Vanessa. "Same nose. Same eyes. Same everything!"
"She's kinda plain," said the tall guard, scratching his head. "You're prettier."
"I'm prettier than myself?"
"You've got a nice figure, too," said the short guard. "She's kinda meh."
"I'm wearing a poofy wedding dress! I look like I'm stuck inside a giant marshmallow. How can you tell what kind of figure she—I mean, I—have?"
"Your hair's more of a dark blonde. And your lips are fuller," said Tall Dude.
"Yeah," added Shorty. "And you … y'know." He cupped his hands in front of his chest. "You're … er, bigger."
I stared at them. Short Dude at least had the decency to blush, but Tall Dude just went back to his post like we hadn't spent five minutes discussing why I was simultaneously uglier and hotter than my own wedding portrait.
"Vanessa?"
I turned. Oliver King stood there, looking as handsome as ever—and he damn well knew it. Ollie had been my instant best friend, the big brother I never had, and one of the few people in the glittering snake pit of elites who was actually worth a damn.
"Oh, my little rabbit," he cooed, eyes raking over me. "Look at you. You've changed into a tigress."
"Well, this tigress can't even get into her own engagement party," I grumbled.
"Why are you entering like common folk?"
"Because the VIP entrance is locked, and our wedding planner's ghosting me."
"Call Nathan."
I crossed my arms. "I don't want to talk to him."
Ollie's eyebrows shot up. "Oh! Dra-ma!" He grabbed my wrist and yanked me forward, flashing his invitation at the guards, who waved us through without a second glance. Once inside, he tucked the invite into his jacket. "My mother's lurking somewhere, and I am not in the mood for her matchmaking. C'mon, Cinderella—let's dance."
We stuck to the edges of the ballroom, slipping onto the dance floor where couples swayed to a jazz quartet. Ollie's hands settled on my hips; mine clasped his shoulders.
"Tell me everything," he demanded.
I couldn't exactly say, "Fiona murdered me, Nathan left me to die, and now I'm back from the dead for revenge." Ollie would book me a one-way ticket to the nearest psychiatric ward. So I went with the abridged truth.
"I don't want to marry Nathan, but the only way I can escape is if he dumps me and breaks our contract marriage."
Ollie pressed his lips together. "Really, Neenie? I thought you were in love with him."
"Yesterday's news."
"If you're serious about breaking things off with Nathan, then count me in for all shenanigans." He squeezed my waist. "That knockoff Vanessa wannabe can't outshine you. Tonight? You're a goddess."
Heat flooded my cheeks. Ollie pinched one, grinning. "Are you blushing, little rabbit?Red-faced Vanessa is adorable."
"Stop it," I said, blushing harder.
"Time for booze and bad decisions." He dragged me off the dance floor toward the open bar. Glasses of pinot grigio in hand, we scouted for a quiet corner—until a razor-sharp voice cut through the crowd.
"Oliver! Leo Annison of the Annison Group is here."
"It's my mother." Ollie groaned. "I swear to heaven if she arranges another blind date, I will kill myself."
Mrs. King marched over, elegant and unstoppable. She latched onto the crook of Ollie's elbow, and offered me a warm smile. "How are you, dear?"
"Fine, Mrs. King. You?"
"Without grandchildren," she said tartly, narrowing her gaze at her son.
"Men can't have babies," Ollie said. "How do you expect me and my future husband to produce children?"
"Use your seed and donor eggs and a surrogate."
"Mom," said Ollie. "Vanessa needs me. I can't meet Leonardo de Asshole, okay?"
"You're impossible. Leo Annison is single now. Go talk to him. Woo him with your charm and other fine attributes." Mrs. King glanced at me. "I'm talking about his ass, which he inherited from me."
I almost spit out my wine. I sent an amused glance to Ollie. He rolled his eyes.
"I'm not going," said Ollie. "I'd rather throw myself into a pit of rusty spikes."
"We'll call that Plan B," said Mrs. King. "Either you talk to Leo right now, or I will arrange a speed dating event that lasts for hours without a drop of alcohol to be found."
"You are so cruel. Are you even my real mother?"
"Unfortunately, I am. Ollie, do not test me." Mrs. King offered another smile to Vanessa. "Have a pleasant evening, dear. Congratulations on your engagement."
"Thank you, Mrs. King."
As Mrs. King dragged her son away, Ollie sent me a pleading look. I shook my head. My newfound bravery did not include taking on the formidable Mrs. King and her quest to marry off her only child.
I scanned the ballroom until my gaze landed on Nathan. He stood on the opposite side, Fiona clinging to his arm as he nursed what was undoubtedly a single-malt Scotch. Personally, I thought drinking Scotch was the equivalent of licking a sheep's butt. Gross.
Let me say this about Nathan. He was gorgeous. Six feet and four inches tall, with wavy brown hair and dark brown eyes. A jawline that could cut glass. He kept in shape and okay, yum, his tailored suit fit him so, so well. Was I attracted to him? Completely. Only a dead person wouldn't be attracted to Nathan Jang.
Nathan and Fiona chatted with a small group of people that included Kiki and Hannah.
For a heartbeat, I felt like old Vanessa. The one who'd watched helplessly as Fiona slithered into Nathan's life, stealing my place next to Nathan's side. And he let it happen.
And so did I.
In my past life, confronting Fiona would have been like attacking a tiger with a Wiffle bat—hopeless and fatal. But this time?
I wasn't fighting for Nathan.
I was fighting for me.
Fiona wore a high-necked white dress with long sleeves, no jewelry except for diamond studs, and understated makeup. The picture of demure perfection—the kind of woman men deemed wife material.
Fiona had been the one to teach me that men didn't want their wives to be the women they lusted after. No, they wanted them safe—safe from other men's gazes, safe from their own passions. A wife had to be chaste, even within marriage, to be worthy of the title. God forbid she ever admit to desire.
In my prior incarnation, I had tried to compete with that perfect-wife persona, which is why my closet looked like a vanilla ice cream factory had exploded.
You know what? I hate vanilla ice cream.
Nathan was mid-sip when he spotted me. The glass never reached his lips. He stared, transfixed, until the people around him followed his gaze. Appreciation flickered across the men's faces. One even clapped Nathan on the shoulder as if to say, Damn, you're lucky.
I made eye contact, raised my glass in a silent toast, and took a slow drink. Then, deliberately, I turned my back on him and sauntered away.