Baking My Cheating Fiancé Alive

I pulled the brand-new Mercedes into the private garage beneath our family’s estate—a gift from my parents ahead of the wedding—and opened the vehicle control app on my phone. Setting the high-heat ozone decontamination cycle, I tapped "Confirm".

A notification chime rang out. The cloud dashboard for the 360-degree cabin dashcam suddenly popped up on my screen.

And then, bizarre, luminous lines of text began skimming across the video feed like live internet comments:

[Oh God, why is the side character running the ozone cycle right now?! The male lead and the snake are in the trunk getting their kicks!]

[They’re dead meat. That car has military-grade deadbolts. A hundred and forty degrees Fahrenheit plus high-density ozone? They’re going to suffocate in there!]

[Shane has a heart condition, and Piper is pregnant! This is ruthless!]

I froze, staring at the screen.

Entwined on the feed were two unmistakable figures.

Shane? Piper?

Shane—my devout, gentle fiancé, who was so timid he still blushed when he held my hand in public. Piper—my fragile, wide-eyed best friend, the girl who claimed she couldn't twist the cap off a bottle of sparkling water without assistance.

They were writhing together behind my back.

"The male lead and his lover? And my luxury engagement gift was their private motel?"

A cold, razor-sharp laugh caught in my throat. Without missing a beat, I dragged the heat cycle timer on the app to its absolute maximum. Then, I pulled up my contacts and dialed my future mother-in-law.

"Miriam," I said, my voice sweet, breathless, and completely innocent. "Shane just texted me. He says he has a massive surprise for me down in the subterranean garage. Please, bring the aunts and cousins down. You all have to see this."

The floating comments on the screen went feral:

[She’s insane! She’s calling the whole family!]