Chapter 3

The night before the wedding also doubled as the bachelor and bachelorette parties.

The first floor of the villa was brightly lit, the heavy bass from the speakers making the floorboards tremble slightly.

Vance and his friends were partying wildly in the living room, while Daphne was popping champagne with her squad in the side hall.

Using a headache and my immense grief over losing Max as excuses, I retreated early to the master bedroom on the second floor.

According to their plan in the group chat, at exactly 1:00 AM tonight, Daphne would sneak into my room, take the real diamond ring from the vanity, and swap it with the identical fake one.

Then, first thing tomorrow morning, they would publicly accuse me of losing the ring again.

I sat on the edge of the bed, watching the time tick away minute by minute.

My luggage was already packed. I didn't take a single piece of clothing Vance had bought for me, nor any of those expensive bags. I only took a black carry-on suitcase, containing my personal IDs, a few basic sets of clothes, and my old psychology research notes from college.

That six-figure wedding dress was tossed onto the floor of the walk-in closet like a piece of trash.

12:45 AM.

I heard faint footsteps coming down the hallway outside my door. I immediately lay back down, closed my eyes, adjusted my breathing, and pretended to be fast asleep.

The door lock let out a very soft click.

Daphne tiptoed in. I could smell her pungent perfume mixed with the stench of alcohol. She walked over to the vanity and skillfully opened the jewelry box.

"Idiot," I heard her mutter under her breath, her voice carrying an undisguised smugness.

She took the real ring—which I had coated entirely in Parthenium extract—and placed the fake one inside. The whole process took less than two minutes.

When the door closed again, I opened my eyes. In the darkness, my gaze was terrifyingly lucid.

I knew Daphne's vanity. She absolutely wouldn't be able to resist putting the ring on her own finger to show off.

At 2:00 AM, the noise downstairs finally died down. Everyone had passed out drunk on the sofas.

I grabbed my carry-on and walked down the stairs like a ghost.

Passing the hallway leading to the backyard garden, I stopped.

Tomorrow's wedding ceremony was to be held in the garden's glass sunroom. I took out the bottle of high-concentration Parthenium spray and applied it generously over the floral arch on the main stage, the exact spot where Daphne would stand as the maid of honor, and Vance's microphone, leaving no blind spots.

After finishing all this, I returned to the living room.

Vance's laptop was sitting on the coffee table. I skillfully booted it up, inserted a flash drive, and implanted a scheduled-send program into his system.

At the same time, I hacked into the control terminal for the LED screens at tomorrow's wedding venue.

At exactly 12:00 PM tomorrow, right when the pastor asks, "Do you take...", this "care package"—containing hundreds of pages of chat logs, audio files, and bank transfer records—would be simultaneously sent to every guest in attendance and broadcast continuously across the giant screens.

3:00 AM.

I pushed open the front door of the villa. The night wind hit my face, carrying the chill of early autumn, yet making me feel an unprecedented sense of freedom.

A pre-booked black sedan was already waiting at the intersection. The driver helped me put my luggage in the trunk.

"To the airport, ma'am?"

"Yes, JFK International." I got into the backseat and never looked back once at the cage that had trapped me for seven years.

7:00 AM.

Sunlight broke through the clouds, shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom.

Vance rubbed his hungover temples and crawled up from the guest room sofa. He habitually glanced at his watch, then headed up to the second floor.

"Nora, time to wake up, the makeup artist is going to be..."

His voice caught in his throat.

The bed was perfectly made, with absolutely no signs of being slept in. The vanity was bare, the walk-in closet door was wide open, and that expensive wedding dress was slumped on the floor like a corpse.

Vance sobered up instantly. He bolted into the bathroom—nobody. He yanked open all the drawers; Nora's few favorite everyday clothes and her IDs were gone.

An unprompted wave of panic coiled around his heart like a venomous snake.

"Nora!" he yelled into the empty room.

His phone suddenly vibrated. It was a call from the wedding makeup artist.

"Vance, we can't get ahold of the bride!"

Cold sweat instantly soaked Vance's shirt. He finally realized that the woman he had played for a fool for seven years had vanished.