"How does it feel to wear your sister's wedding dress, Mrs. Orlov?" a reporter shouted, shoving a microphone past the velvet ropes.

Flashbulbs blinded me the second we stepped onto the entryway carpet of Saint Aurelia. The charity poker game operated under the guise of a high-society gala, and the media had clearly already caught wind of the bride swap.

I stopped walking. Mikhail halted beside me.

"Being treated as a replacement by my family doesn't mean I have to keep speaking for them," I told the cameras, my voice steady.

Several phones angled higher to record the statement.

Mikhail did not raise his hand to block the lenses. He did not pull me behind his broad shoulders. Instead, he stepped half a pace back, giving me the floor to answer for myself.

Inside the main hall, crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over crowded baccarat tables. I scanned the room, my eyes catching on a tall floral centerpiece near the bar. A small brass placard rested against the glass vase.

Vela Events.

"Look at that sign," I told Mikhail, pointing at the brass plate.

He followed my finger. "A party planner?"

"Three months ago, Sofia made me process an import order of white peonies through my shop for a company called Vela Events," I explained, the pieces snapping together. "I thought she just wanted an exclusive wedding coordinator. But they are supplying a Ferraro club."

"A convenient overlap," Mikhail noted, his jaw tightening.

"The quieter, more useful Moretti sister," a smooth voice interrupted.

Luca Ferraro approached us, holding a champagne flute. He wore a burgundy tuxedo and a smile that did not reach his eyes. He spoke to me as if we had crossed paths a hundred times before.

"Where is she, Luca?" I demanded, skipping the pleasantries.

He ignored my question, turning his attention to the floral arrangements. "Your flower shop has an excellent cold-chain supply capacity. Very efficient logistics. Is it not a waste to lock a smart business owner in the Orlov estate, Mikhail?"

"Why are you so familiar with my floral suppliers?" I asked, cutting off his smug commentary.

Luca chuckled. He offered no answer. He simply turned and walked toward a private salon off the main floor.

The heavy oak door stood slightly ajar. Through the narrow gap, a thick red ledger sat open on a mahogany desk.

I did not rush the door to steal it. Instead, I waited until Luca disappeared into the VIP lounge. Under the guise of inspecting the charity auction flower arrangements, I drifted past the cracked door of the salon.

I memorized three specific lines inked onto the visible page.

My shop's merchant ID. The letters V.E. And Carlo Moretti's digital authorization code.

Those numbers were all the proof I needed to audit my own raw data back at the store.

Before I could relay the information to Mikhail, a man in a sharp gray suit blocked our path to the central tables. He held a leather folio tight against his chest.

"Mrs. Orlov," the man said, pulling a thick contract from the folder. "I represent your father's primary creditors. We need your signature on this supplementary guarantee."

I studied the document. "For what?"

"To confirm Moretti Blooms remains liable for the family debt under your new marital status," the agent stated.

Carlo was trying to chain his old loans to Mikhail's vast wealth, using my fresh marriage certificate as the link.

"I am not signing that," I told him.

The agent scoffed, tapping his expensive pen against the clipboard. "Your father assured us the Orlov family would secure the balance. Without your husband's backing, you have no negotiating power here."

"Eleven months ago, Carlo mortgaged my shop to pay your clients," I announced. I made sure my voice carried over the clinking casino chips to the surrounding tables. "I sold my grandmother's pearl earrings just to keep the lease active. The Morettis drained my business dry. You will not get another cent from me."

The agent flushed, looking past me to Mikhail. "Mr. Orlov, surely you want to clear your new wife's liabilities."

Mikhail reached out and pushed the folio flat against the agent's chest.

"She owes you nothing beyond a last name," Mikhail told the man.

He did not sign a check to make the problem vanish. He did not override my refusal to play the hero. He stood firmly beside me, entirely backing my decision.

A quiet, solid measure of trust took root in my chest.

"Let's go," Mikhail instructed, guiding me toward the exit.

As we navigated the crowded floor, a waiter passed by with a silver tray. He seamlessly slipped a folded linen napkin into my hand without breaking his stride.

I kept my fist closed until we were secured in the back seat of the armored SUV.

I smoothed the napkin over my lap. A single line of text stained the white fabric in dark ink.

Sofia isn't hiding from Mikhail. She's hiding from you.

I flipped the linen over. A web address was printed on the back, followed by a twenty-four-hour countdown.

Anton typed the URL into his encrypted tablet from the front passenger seat.

"The servers are bouncing," Anton reported, tapping the illuminated screen. "Russia, Brazil, completely untraceable. The timer ends exactly during your foundation gala tomorrow night."

"Cancel the event," Mikhail ordered, adjusting his cuffs.

"No," I argued, gripping the edges of the napkin. "Whoever wrote this wants me to panic and hide. If I cancel my first public appearance as your wife, they get to write the narrative."

"You are inviting a direct attack," Mikhail warned, his dark eyes locking onto mine.

"I am calling their bluff." I leaned forward, looking at the tablet. "They want me to disappear so they can speak for me. I won't let them."

Anton handed the device over the center console. "Ten seconds left on the current server ping."

I watched the digital numbers flash across the dark screen.

24:00:02.

24:00:01.

The timer ticked down to 23:59:59.

The black screen refreshed, and a new line of white text crawled slowly across the bottom of the display.

Tomorrow night, let the real bride tell everyone what you did.

By nine the next morning, I was sitting behind the counter at Moretti Blooms with yesterday's wedding ring still on my finger and three months of merchant transactions open on my laptop. The shop smelled like wet stems and eucalyptus. Usually that smell settled me. T

By eight the next morning, I had revoked Sofia's access to Moretti Blooms. By eight-oh-three, I had revoked my father's. The confirmation boxes disappeared from my laptop one after another. TEMPORARY USER — DISABLED. FAMILY MANAGEMENT ACCESS — DISABLED. SAVED APPROVAL