I calmly double-tapped the photo. In it, my fiancé, Ethan, and his stepsister, Chloe, were locked in a tight embrace. The location tag: the family ski lodge in Wyoming. In seven days, I was supposed to marry him, securing his claim on his family’s ten-billion-dollar trust fund. And here he was, on a “farewell trip” with his stepsister. My phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Everyone asking if I was okay. I was fine. I silenced a call from a friend and dialed another number. “You can start.” The man on the other end was the elite private investigator I’d hired. Ethan thought I was some helpless vine, incapable of surviving without him. He had no idea my premarital assets were enough to buy half of his family’s company. He certainly had no idea that I’d already arranged for a new identity, and a perfect “accident.” He wanted to use me to get everything. And I wanted to ruin him at the annual charity gala, at the very moment of his triumph. That night, the enormous screen behind the stage would play irrefutable proof of his affair on a loop. And the police would escort him straight from the heir’s throne, a suspect in the “murder” of his fiancée. As for me? No body. No trace. I would become the nightmare he could never escape. ... That phone call was a week ago, the night before Ethan left for Wyoming. He’d invited a few groomsmen to the Pacific-Union Club for an impromptu bachelor party. I drove over, planning to surprise him. The door to the cigar room was ajar. Inside, I could hear his voice, tipsy and slick with smugness. “Once I marry Olivia, those old fossils on the trust committee will finally shut up,” he said, pride swelling in his voice. “She’s the perfect choice. A Winston, a born hostess.” I smiled, my hand lifting to push the door open. Just then, his best man asked, “Then why the hell did you promise Chloe you’d go to Wyoming with her now? The annual gala is next week. Are you in......
