The gallery opening in SoHo was crowded, loud, and pretentious—exactly the kind of place I, Harper Quinn, usually avoided. I wasn’t just an artist; I was a curator at a small, struggling contemporary arts museum, known more for my eye than my connections. My abstract oil pieces, tucked into the corner, were called “enigmatic” by critics and “confusing” by buyers. I stood nursing a glass of cheap white wine, watching people pass as if I were invisible.

Then Adrian Locke walked in.

It wasn’t only that he was handsome. It was the way he moved, effortlessly commanding the room. He stopped in front of my least commercial piece, Silent Horizon, the one I had priced sky-high just to keep it.

“It’s remarkable,” he said, looking at me with icy blue eyes. “It feels like drowning in open air. I have to have it.”

“I’m… not sure it’s for sale,” I murmured.

“Double the price,” he smiled. “Think of it as a down payment on knowing the curator with the sharpest eye in the room.”

And that was the start of it.

The next six months blurred into something intoxicating. Adrian, a venture capitalist, showered me with attention: filling my apartment with orchids, whisking me away to Venice because I had mentioned missing Italian canals, validating every insecurity and dream. Everyone was impressed. My colleagues admired my “luck.” My parents were relieved I’d found stability.

Only Evelyn, my older sister and a meticulous corporate lawyer, remained wary.

“Harper,” she warned one night over coffee, her sharp gaze fixed on me, “he’s too perfect. Nobody like him exists without a plan.”

“You’re just jealous,” I snapped. “Why can’t you be happy for me?”

She said nothing, but the worry in her eyes never left.

The wedding day arrived like a crescendo. The venue: a glass conservatory draped in white orchids. I stood on the dais in custom silk, hand-in-hand with Adrian. The cake: seven tiers, gold leaf glimmering. Perfect.

He placed his hand over mine on the silver knife.

“Ready, my love?” he asked.

I looked at him, thinking this was the happiest moment of my life.

Then Evelyn stepped onto the stage.

She hugged me tightly, but her body shook violently.

“Harper, don’t cut it. Push it over. Now. If you want to survive.”

I turned to see Adrian. He wasn’t smiling. His eyes flicked to his watch. Tight jaw. Anticipating.

I acted on instinct.

I shoved the cake.

CRASH.

Layers of sponge and cream exploded across the marble floor. Guests froze. A glob of frosting landed on Adrian’s tuxedo.

His face contorted in rage. “You—!”

Evelyn grabbed my wrist. “Run!”

We bolted through the chaos, barefoot, slipping through debris, toward the service entrance she had scouted. Men in suits—mercenaries, not security—pursued.

We reached her old sedan. Glass shattered. Tires screamed. Freedom.

Evelyn handed me a folder and a voice recorder.

I pressed play.

Adrian’s voice: “She’s perfect. Clean medical history, no ties that matter. Tonight, she disappears. The cake will do its work. Ship her. Harvest. My $5 million debt—cleared.”

I felt my stomach drop.

I wasn’t loved. I was an asset.

We went to the police. The frosting tested positive for lethal ketamine.

Sirens wailed at the conservatory. SWAT stormed in. Adrian tried to act. “Harper, sweetheart, it’s a misunderstanding—”

I walked up to him.

And slapped him.

“The performance is over.”

Officers cuffed him. His mercenaries were rounded up.

At dawn, I stood on the beach, burning my ruined wedding dress. The silk curled and blackened, the lace turning to ash.

Evelyn wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.

“I never needed a prince,” she said. “I only needed my sister alive.”

We watched the sun rise. The fairytale was gone. But truth—and each other—remained.