At 28, I was an elite event planner, orchestrating the wedding of fashion heiress Victoria Halston. Everything was perfect—until I saw the groom. My heart stopped. “Andrew Wallace” was Jacob Rivers, my ex-fiancé who vanished six months earlier after stealing $61,000 from me.
He didn’t even flinch when our eyes met—pretending he didn’t know me. When I confronted him mid-ceremony, slapping him and calling him out, Victoria’s brother, a detective, labeled me an unhinged crasher. I left in humiliation—but not defeat.
That night, in disguise as “Aunt Sylvia,” I returned to the reception. I presented a fake heirloom worth “a million dollars,” then waited. Sure enough, Jacob stole it and ran. I stopped him cold with a swing of a pitcher, and this time, the detective believed me. Jacob was arrested on the spot.
A week later, Victoria offered me a job—not just as a planner, but as her assistant. Trusted. Valued.
My best revenge wasn’t Jacob’s arrest—it was reclaiming my power and choosing to rise.
