Part 1Unmasking The Fake Fiancee

On the day my female boss married the wealthiest man in the country—posing as his long-lost childhood sweetheart—I was standing outside their dressing room, holding a tray.

She was waiting for him, practically vibrating with triumph. But as she changed into her gown, the birthmark on her left shoulder blade was exposed.

Its edges were peeling.

The billionaire’s face would soon darken as he ripped the temporary tattoo from her skin. “The girl I’m looking for,” he would say, “has a real birthmark.”

…

The day billionaire Harrison Hayes rented out an entire private island in the Aegean Sea for his wedding, I was standing outside the ultra-VIP bridal suite, my arms trembling under the weight of a fifteen-pound, diamond-encrusted reserve tiara.

The sea breeze carried the damp, salty scent of the Mediterranean, whipping my loose hair across my face. My calves throbbed with a dull, relentless ache, the result of standing at attention for four straight hours.

The heavy mahogany door was left slightly ajar, leaving a crack just two fingers wide.

The air conditioning blasting from inside was freezing. I could hear the faint, expensive whisper of silk dragging across a plush wool rug.

The woman inside, preparing to slip into a backless haute couture gown personally designed by Harrison Hayes and to wear the absurdly heavy crown currently in my hands, was Sloane Mercer.

She was the star of today’s wedding of the century. She was the "girl from the group home" Harrison had spent fifteen agonized years searching for.

She was also the Creative Director at Hayes Luxury—my direct boss, the woman who had spent the last six months stepping on my neck, taking credit for my life's work, and stealing my portfolio.

By all rights, I should have been the lead designer for the Hayes Group’s flagship autumn collection. But the moment Sloane had been parachuted into the department, she buried me under a mountain of fabricated HR infractions and "paying-your-dues" workplace politics. She systematically reduced me to a glorified errand girl, to the point where I was assigned to carry platters and clean up trash at her own wedding.

"The waist on this gown is still entirely too tight. How exactly did you measure me?" Sloane’s haughty, grating voice drifted through the crack in the door, followed by a chorus of panicked apologies from the wardrobe assistants. "Do you not realize Harrison is going to have his eyes on me all night?"

Standing in the hallway, I stared down at the velvet tray in my hands, a cold, mocking smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

Just then, the sound of heavy, measured footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor.

I turned my head. Harrison Hayes was striding toward me, flanked by a phalanx of men in black suits and frantic assistants. He was wearing a masterfully tailored black tuxedo that emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His features were sharp, carved from marble, and his eyes—which usually held the suffocating weight of a ruthless corporate predator—were surprisingly soft today, gleaming with the quiet anticipation of a man about to see the love of his life.

Seeing me standing outside the door with a tray, Harrison’s brow furrowed slightly.

He recognized me, or at least, he had a shallow, passing memory of my existence. I was just that clumsy, unremarkable design assistant whom Sloane Mercer publicly berated for "lacking vision."

He didn't acknowledge me. He didn't spare me a second glance. Reaching out with long, elegant fingers, he pushed open the dressing room door.

"Harrison? What are you doing in here! I’m not decent yet!" Sloane let out a theatrical, sickeningly sweet gasp.

Through the widening gap in the doorway, the scene inside came into sharp focus.

Sloane had her back to the door. She had just slipped off her silk getting-ready robe, wearing nothing on top but a sticky, invisible backless bra, preparing to step into the exquisite gown.

Harrison stopped dead in his tracks.

His eyes didn't land on Sloane’s meticulously contoured face or her flawless hair. His gaze was locked, as if paralyzed, on her bare back—specifically, on her left shoulder blade.

Right there, resting against her skin, was a pale red birthmark shaped perfectly like a butterfly.

But the Mediterranean heat was stifling, and the endless fittings in the overly air-conditioned room had caused Sloane to break a sweat.

The edges of that so-called "birthmark" had turned a milky white. Because of the moisture, a tiny, embarrassing ridge of plastic film was visibly peeling away from her skin.

It wasn't a birthmark. It was a cheap, temporary tattoo.