My fiancé said, “Don’t call me your future husband.” I nodded. That night, I quietly removed my name from every guest list he’d made. Two days later, he walked into lunch and froze at what waited on his chair.

Adrian had reserved the garden room for twelve guests: his mother, his sister, his groomsmen, two investors, and the editor of a society magazine preparing to feature our wedding.

What Adrian failed to remember was that Bellamy House had been founded by my grandmother.

Her portrait hung above the fireplace.

The managing director sent holiday cards to my family every year.

The staff did not recognize Adrian Vale.

They recognized me.

Friday morning, I dressed in ivory.

Not bridal ivory.

Funeral ivory.

My assistant, Noelle, set a slim folder on my desk.

“Everything is confirmed,” she said. “The hotel deposits were attached to your card. The floral contract carries your signature. The venue agreement lists you as the primary client. Adrian’s authorization expired the moment you withdrew consent.”