I sat frozen in my studio, phone still lying where it had fallen from my numb fingers. The empty mannequin mocked me with its nakedness—a perfect metaphor for how stripped bare I felt.
My wedding dress. My fiancé. My future. All stolen in one cruel swoop.
This wasn't the first time my life had crumbled because of the Turner women. Memories flooded back unbidden.
I was eleven when my father first brought Tanya Turner home. My mother was away caring for my sick grandmother, and he wasted no time. I still remember walking into our kitchen to find them entangled against the refrigerator, his hands under her skirt.
"It's our little secret," he'd said, his eyes cold with warning.
Six months later, my parents divorced. My mother never recovered from the betrayal. She died of pneumonia two years later, though I knew she'd really died of heartbreak. My grandfather followed shortly after, leaving me alone with the father who'd chosen another woman over his family.
Tanya moved in with her twins—Ivy and Ian—before my mother's funeral flowers had wilted. From day one, she made it clear I was an unwelcome reminder of the woman who came before.
Now, fifteen years later, history was repeating itself. Ivy had learned from her mother well.
"Like mother, like daughter," I whispered to the empty room.
I stood up, legs unsteady, and walked to the window. Outside, life continued as if my world hadn't just imploded. Cars honked. People hurried past with coffee cups. The sun shone with offensive brightness.
For six years, I'd loved Alistair. We met in high school, bonded over shared artistic dreams. When he was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder at nineteen, I discovered I was his perfect blood match. How many times had I sat in hospital chairs, needle in my arm, watching my blood flow into collection bags that would later flow into him?
"You saved my life," he'd said after the first transfusion. "I'll never forget this."
Yet here he was, forgetting everything.
And Ivy—always coveting what was mine. My clothes. My sketches. My friends. Now my fiancé.
I thought of her in my wedding dress—the dress I'd spent months designing, weeks sewing. Every pearl sewn with love. Every stitch a promise. Now she would wear it while marrying the man I loved.
"Cancer," I muttered. "How convenient."
Tears threatened again, but I pushed them back. Tears wouldn't help me now. They never had.
When my mother died, I'd cried for weeks. Did it bring her back? When my grandfather passed six months later, leaving me truly alone with my toxic new family, did my tears change anything?
No. Tears were useless. Action was all that mattered.
I picked up my phone, scrolled to Alistair's number, and called. He answered on the fourth ring, sounding irritated.
"Hazel, I can't talk right now. I'm with—"
"I want Evening Gala," I cut in, my voice steady despite the hurricane raging inside me.
Silence greeted my demand. Evening Gala was our luxury fashion brand—the company we'd built together while he recovered from treatments. My designs. His business acumen. Our shared dream.
"What are you talking about?" he finally asked.
"You offered fifty percent of Everett Enterprises as compensation," I reminded him. "I don't want it. I want Evening Gala. All of it. Sign over your shares to me."
He laughed, actually laughed. "That's ridiculous. Evening Gala is worth millions."
"And what's a bride worth these days, Alistair?" I countered coldly. "You're buying my place at the altar. This is my price."
"You're being unreasonable," he snapped. "Evening Gala is our flagship brand. It's the crown jewel of Everett Enterprises."
"Yes, built on my designs. My talent. My reputation." I kept my voice level. "It should have been mine from the beginning."
"We're partners in that company," he argued. "Equal partners."
"Were partners," I corrected. "Just like we were engaged."
I heard voices in the background—female voices. Ivy was there, probably wearing my dress, listening to our conversation. The thought stoked my resolve into a bonfire.
"You have two options," I continued. "Sign Evening Gala over to me completely, or I go public with our story. I wonder how your investors would feel knowing you abandoned your fiancée of six years for her dying stepsister? Quite the scandal."
"You wouldn't dare," he hissed.
"Wouldn't I? Test me, Alistair. See what happens when you strip someone of everything they care about."
More silence. Then muffled voices—he was covering the phone, discussing with someone. Probably Ivy, whispering poison in his ear.
"You have twenty-four hours," I continued. "Deliver the signed papers to my lawyer tomorrow morning, or I start making calls to every fashion magazine and business journal that might be interested in this charming story."
"This isn't you, Hazel," he said, his voice softening, trying a new tactic. "You've always been so kind, so understanding. What happened to the woman I fell in love with?"
The question struck deep, but I refused to flinch.
"She died when you stole her wedding dress for another woman."
He sighed heavily. "Fine. I'll have the papers drawn up. But this ends all obligations between us. No more claims. No contact. Nothing."
"Agreed," I said without hesitation.
"Hazel..." His voice dropped lower. "I truly am sorry."
"No, you're not," I replied calmly. "But you will be."
I hung up before he could respond. My heart hammered in my chest, adrenaline surging through my body. Did I just do that? Did I really just demand an entire company as compensation?
My phone buzzed with a text. Vera, my best friend since college.
"Just heard the news. That backstabbing SOB. Coming over with ice cream and vodka. Don't do anything insane until I get there."
Too late, I thought, almost laughing through my pain.
I looked at the empty mannequin again. Then at my sketch table, covered with designs for next season's collection. My collection. My company now.
Alistair thought he could discard me with a cash settlement. He thought I'd cry and beg and eventually accept whatever crumbs he offered.
He'd forgotten one crucial thing—I'd survived before. I'd rebuilt myself from ashes once when my mother died and my family crumbled. I could do it again.
Next time he saw me, I wouldn't be the heartbroken ex-fiancée.
I would be the queen who took his crown.