Chapter 3
Evelyn's POV
My mother Catherine overheard the call and lunged for the box, snatching it from the waiter before slamming the door.
“Sweetheart, you didn’t forget what day it is, did you?” I said.
“Forget? How could I? It’s the big day you’ve been scheming for. Put on the outfit I sent, and I’ll come marry you. Deal?”
I shoved my chair back, standing as Catherine thrust the box at me, her hands trembling like she’d drop it any second.
I tore it open—a white lab coat. Seriously? My blood boiled. Last night, he’d flaunted his mistress in my bed; now he’d ditched our wedding and sent this? He’s trying to humiliate me, I thought, picturing his sharp jaw and that bad-boy grin I hated to love. “Dorian, you want me to wear this to marry you?”
“Don’t you love flaunting your OB-GYN gig? Telling everyone you’re a doctor? I’m just giving you what you want.”
I clutched the phone, nails digging in. God, he’s gorgeous when he’s cruel, I thought, cursing myself for it. “This wedding’s on you—show up or don’t…” My voice faded as Richard ripped the phone from me, roaring, “Watch your damn mouth!”
I flung the coat onto the vanity. “Dad, you heard him—he’s unhinged. If I walk out in this, what’ll people say about me? About us Ashfords?”
“Losing face matters more when the groom’s a no-show!” he bellowed, veins bulging in his neck.
I scoffed. “Then it’s both families’ shame.”
Catherine’s eyes darted to the clock, her voice shrill. “Stop fighting—put it on, honey! It’s a circus out there. Deal with Dorian when he’s here.” She shoved the coat at me, desperate.
Humiliation clawed at me. He’s laughing his ass off right now, I fumed, imagining those piercing eyes crinkling with glee. And my parents are his cheerleaders because he’s a Blackwood.
They stormed out. Riley Adams slipped in, peeling off my gown with care. “Dorian’s a pig. This is insane.”
“Whatever,” I muttered, but my chest ached. I’m powerless, I thought. Always have been. For my parents, I’d swallow this.
Riley’s face twisted. “He was at the Midnight Lounge today—partying. Pics are floating around; media hasn’t dropped them yet. My friend snagged some…”
“Show me,” I said, a vengeful spark igniting. She handed me her phone. Dorian, in his groom suit, grinning with two blondes. Perfect. I’d turn his game back on him.
On the stage, I marched out in the lab coat, every eye burning into me. Victoria gasped, “Who let you wear that?” Her voice cracked, hands flailing.
“Is that the bride?” a guest hissed.
“So tacky—total bad omen!” another sneered.
“Mommy, a doctor? I don’t want shots!” a kid sobbed, kicking off wails.
The crowd erupted—whispers, gasps, cries—drowning me in shame. I’m a freak show, I thought, cheeks blazing.
Catherine clutched Richard’s arm, whispering frantically, “She’s ruining us!”
Richard’s face turned purple, muttering, “She’d better fix this.” Even the emcee froze, useless.
Then Dorian strolled in, all swagger, like he’d been there all along. Guests parted, stunned. He grabbed the ring, sauntering up, his gaze raking me—those chiseled features and that devilish smirk making my stomach flip despite my rage. “Wearing that to our wedding? You must really hate this.”
The chatter exploded. “The Ashfords have no shame—climbing up to the Blackwoods like that,” a woman sneered.
“Small-time trash with no breeding,” a man scoffed, loud enough for my cousins in the back to hear, their heads dipping in embarrassment.
Dorian leaned in, his breath brushing my ear. “Say you don’t want this. Last chance.” That smug, beautiful face, I thought, torn between slapping it and staring. My eyes flicked to the crowd—relatives pointing, strangers judging. He thinks he’s breaking me.
**I unbuttoned the coat, then threw my arms around him, grabbing the mic. “I’m a doctor,” I said, each word a hammer. “I’ve delivered life and watched it fade. Every job’s sacred. Today, I’m not Dr. Ashford—I’m your wife.” My voice thundered, shaking him. I dropped the coat, revealing a tight dress that hugged my tall frame. His eyes widened—**caught you, you lech, I thought, relishing the flash of awe in that handsome face.
Riley whooped, clapping wildly. “So romantic! That’s love right there!” The crowd softened, some clapping, others cooing.
Catherine exhaled, fanning herself, while Richard grunted, “She pulled it off.”
Victoria muttered, “Still a disgrace,” but smiled thinly.
Dorian’s jaw tightened—he wasn’t buying the “love” bit. Good, I thought, smirking inside. This is war.
I held out my hand, cheeks flushed, playing coy—darting glances at him, then away. Ring me, asshole. His face stayed ice-cold, but David—his grandpa, my unlikely ally—stood, cane tapping. Dorian had no escape. He grabbed my hand, sliding the ring on like it burned him.
Music swelled, sappy and warm. The screen lit up with our photos—then a collective gasp. There he was, blown up huge: same suit, two blondes draped over him. My charming husband, I thought, half-furious, half-thrilled at the chaos. He’d partied in his groom gear, leaving me to rot here, the pitiful bride. You absolute scum.
Silence gripped the room—Blackwood clout kept mouths shut. Victoria yelped, “It’s fake—photoshopped!” waving at the techs. The emcee, sweating bullets, barked, “Cut it!” Too late. Dorian’s smile twisted into something grim as he shoved the ring on harder.
I leaned in, whispering, “Like your wedding gift, darling?” Take that, you arrogant prick. He thrived on worship, and I kept smashing his pedestal. He stepped closer, grabbing my chin. I jerked back—don’t you dare kiss me, you creep—but he leaned in anyway, that wicked grin flashing. God, I hate how much I like that look, I thought, pulse racing.