I found them sleeping on a marble bench inside my bank—one exhausted mother and a six-year-old girl hugging a torn rabbit.

My breath stopped.

The seamstress gasped and stepped back.

“Oh my God.”

Mara saw my face in the mirror.

Every bit of color drained from hers.

She clutched the dress to her chest and whispered, “Please don’t.”

I stepped closer, slow and careful.

“Who did this?”

Her lips trembled.

“Elian.”

The groom.

The charming heir.

The man who kissed our mother’s hand at dinner continue reading …