Part 1Baking 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!]

* * *

When the call ended, the dashboard app read that the trunk temperature had already climbed to a hundred and four degrees.

My palms were slick with a cold sweat. My chest heaved, nausea rolling through my gut like a rancid tide.

For four years, Shane had brought me warm lemon water every single morning. If the water was a single degree too hot, he would pour it out and steep it again. When we crossed the street in Manhattan, his hand was perpetually at the small of my back, shielding me from traffic. When relatives pushed glasses of champagne on me at galas, he smoothly intervened, drinking them in my place.

Thirty minutes ago, he had draped his cashmere jacket over my bare shoulders, whispering tenderly that the underground lot was drafty and he couldn't bear to let me catch a cold.

And now, that very same man was tangled up with Piper—who was also my cousin Mason’s wife—inside the car my parents had bought for us.

The spectral comments rolled faster and faster across the screen:

[The poor side character is still waiting for her dream proposal. She has no clue they’ve been plotting for years.]

[Piper’s baby belongs to Shane. They’re planning to drain the Ashworth family trusts clean after the wedding.]

[Turn it off! If this goes on any longer, someone’s going to die!]

As that last line faded, the two figures in the feed finally separated.

Piper gave Shane a soft shove, her voice coming through the audio feed with a sickly, breathy whine that made my skin crawl.

"Shane... why is it getting so hot in here? I thought you said the climate control hadn't been activated yet."

Shane grabbed his discarded linen shirt to mop the sweat from his forehead. His tone remained drenched in that familiar, sickening warmth.

"Tara probably tapped the wrong button on the app. Don't worry, sweet girl. I'm right here."

"I'm right here."

The sheer number of times he had murmured those exact words against my ear. Back then, I thought it was a vow. Now I knew it was just cheap, rehearsed script work, handed out to anyone willing to applaud.

Piper looped her arms around his waist, pressing her face against his damp chest.

"The baby kicked just now. Feel it."

Shane leaned down, planting a soft kiss on her temple. "Once we secure the Ashworth equity," he murmured with an easy grin, "I’ll give you and our boy a real home. A real name."

Standing by the driver's side, I caught my reflection in the side mirror. Calmly, methodically, I pulled a tube of crimson lipstick from my purse and touched up my lips.

No tears. The mascara stayed perfect.

A sharp ding echoed through the concrete cavern. The elevator doors slid open, and out stepped Miriam, flanked by Shane’s older sister, Brenda, and a flock of distant cousins. Bringing up the rear was my cousin, Mason, carrying two bottles of vintage scotch.

"Tara, darling!" Miriam beamed, sweeping toward me and grabbing both my hands in an iron grip. "This beauty had to cost at least two hundred grand, didn't it? Your parents certainly know how to spoil their girl. Our Shane is a blessed man."

Brenda piped up, raising her voice so the echo bounced off the concrete walls. "Mom, the Ashworths have old family money. A car is pocket change to them! Besides, once the vows are said, what’s hers is his anyway."

A chorus of polite, avaricious laughter followed. In their minds, the pink slip was already stamped with the Bishop name.

Mason glanced around, his brow furrowed. "Where’s Piper? She said she was coming down early to help you set up decorations for Shane's surprise. Her phone goes straight to voicemail."

"She went to pick up a few extra floral arrangements," I said smoothly, my fingers tightening subtly around my phone. "She should be down any minute."

Miriam, practically vibrating with excitement, took a step toward the trunk. "Well, what on earth did Shane hide in there? Let me take a peek first!"

I caught her elbow, offering a soft, demure smile. "Miriam, please. Shane made me swear it would be a surprise. If everyone stands back and waits, the reveal will be so much better."

Miriam chuckled, preening with motherly pride. "That boy has always been a hopeless romantic. Tara, you’d better treat him like a king."

The relatives obediently scattered behind the concrete pillars, whispering among themselves about how they would clap and cheer the second Shane popped out.

Inside the trunk, the sensor spiked past a hundred and twenty degrees.

Piper began to cough violently, her manicured hands pounding against the locked rear seats. "Shane... why won’t the latch catch? My stomach... it really hurts."

Shane hammered the internal trunk release over and over. Nothing happened.

Once the security deadbolt engaged, the interior manual overrides were entirely disabled. The luxury cabin was an impenetrable vault.

The charming, poised gentleman who had just been whispering sweet nothings didn't even bother to pull his trousers up all the way. His face was distorted with panic.

"Stop crying!" he hissed, his voice cracking. "Find a way out!"

Losing his head, he reared back and kicked the roof of the compartment.

"Thump! Thump!"

The heavy, muffled impacts reverberated through the empty garage.

Mason froze, his head snapping toward the car. "Is there somebody inside?"

Setting the scotch bottles onto the pavement, he strode toward the rear bumper.