A Scandalous Awakening

The scent of imported white lilies hung thick over the pristine marble corridors, suffocating in its perfection. Inside the Harrow estate, flawless appearances were everything.

Today was meant to be the social event of the decade. Instead, the bride had vanished.

Chairman Harrow stalked across the polished floors of the staging room. He adjusted the cuffs of his bespoke tuxedo, his features hardening into a rigid mask of fury. The elite politicians and business tycoons invited to witness the union instinctively parted ways, giving the seething patriarch a wide berth.

The heavy double doors suddenly swung open. Every gaze in the decorated hall snapped toward the entrance.

It wasn’t Maren.

The Director of Public Relations sprinted in, his tailored suit rumpled. Sweat beaded along his pale hairline as his trembling hands gripped a high-definition tablet.

"Speak," the Chairman commanded.

The PR director couldn't form a sentence. He merely thrust the device forward.

Whatever order was about to leave the Chairman’s mouth vanished. Staring back at him from the glossy screen was his eldest daughter. Maren lay draped over the chest of a rugged, unidentifiable man, her wedding lingerie discarded and tangled. Scattered across the background of the shot were tipped wine glasses and clear traces of illicit narcotics.

"What in the absolute—"

A synchronized wave of digital chimes interrupted the Chairman's snarl. Across the expansive venue, hundreds of VIP guests reached into their pockets and purses. Gasps rippled through the crowd as identical notifications lit up their personal screens.

Harrow’s knuckles turned white around the tablet’s metallic casing. With a violent downward swing, he hurled the device onto the stone floor. Glass and electronics shattered, skittering across the marble.

A socialite nearby let out a sharp cry, instantly silenced by the patriarch's booming roar.

"Find that useless tramp of a daughter and bring her to me!"

Miles away from the suffocating luxury, Maren dragged her eyelids open. A blinding overhead light pierced her vision, accompanied by a relentless pounding at the base of her skull.

Her mouth tasted like sour ash. She pressed a palm to her temple, trying to focus. Today was her wedding. So why was she waking up in an unrecognizable, poorly lit hotel room?

She glanced down, realizing she was stripped down to her undergarments. Total amnesia blocked out everything past the rehearsal dinner.

As her bare toes grazed the rough carpet, the solid wooden door blew open. It crashed into the wall with explosive force.

"Maren Camilla Harrow!"

The thunderous voice paralyzed her. She scrambled backward, dragging the tangled duvet over her exposed chest.

Her father marched into the suite like an executioner. Flanking him was a nightmare procession: her fiancé Darren, her younger sister Whitney, and her stepmother Margot.

Maren’s eyes went wide. She stared at the group, her smeared lipstick forming a silent, horrified circle.

The Chairman took another threatening step forward, then abruptly froze. His polished leather oxford crunched down on a soft, foil-wrapped object near the nightstand.

A used condom.

The silence in the room turned suffocating. Maren frantically shook her head, the desperate protests lodging tight in her dry throat.

Harrow exhaled slowly, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses before shifting his lethal gaze to Darren. The groom still wore his ceremonial tuxedo.

"Tell me this belongs to you," the Chairman demanded.

Maren’s pulse hammered. Her mind was a terrifying void. She would have given anything in the world for Darren to nod.

Darren stepped back, his features contorting into a mask of pure revulsion.

"Absolutely not," he sneered. "She insisted we wait until the honeymoon. I had no idea..."

"That she’d end up spreading her legs exactly like her mother?" Harrow finished the thought, his voice dripping with venom.

"No!" Maren gasped, leaning forward to plead.

Before a second word could leave her mouth, Harrow’s hand swung through the air. The brutal backhand cracked against her cheek, sending her crashing onto the floor. Her skin burned with immediate, fiery agony.

"Gather whatever rags you have and get out," Harrow ordered, towering over her fallen form. "Take the bastard seed of whoever you were riding last night with you. You are permanently erased from my will."

Panic seized Maren's chest. "Dad, listen to me! Darren, Whitney, please..."

She looked at their stone-cold faces, hot tears spilling over her stinging cheek.

"I don't remember anything! Someone must have slipped something into my drink!"

Harrow didn't even blink. He pivoted on his heel and strode out the door. Margot followed close behind, a faint, undeniable smirk playing on her lips.

Darren stood over Maren for a lingering second. He unclasped the customized platinum watch she had bought him for the engagement and let it drop onto the carpet.

"I was an idiot to trust a harlot's offspring," he spat, turning his back on her.

Maren collapsed entirely, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed into the carpet fibers. The weight of her heavy diamond engagement ring felt like a cruel joke.

Then, a soft hand rested on her trembling shoulder. Whitney crouched down beside her.

"Shh, it's alright. I know you wouldn't do this," Whitney whispered, stroking Maren’s tangled hair. "I'll go talk to Dad. Just stay strong, okay?"

Maren nodded weakly, desperately clinging to the lifeline her sister offered. "Thank you, Whit."

Once Whitney left and the door clicked shut, the heavy silence of the room pressed down on her.

Maren forced herself off the floor and stumbled into the adjoining bathroom to clean her face. As she stood under the harsh vanity lights, a jarring realization struck her.

If she had actually slept with a stranger, there would be physical evidence. She carefully checked herself. There was absolutely zero soreness, no tearing, and no traces of blood. She was completely intact.

Nothing sexual had occurred in that bed.

A fresh surge of adrenaline washed away the despair. She grabbed the first dress she found in the closet, pulled it over her head, and marched out into the hallway.

She had to find Whitney. Together, they could prove the photos were staged.

Maren hurried down the corridor toward her sister’s assigned suite. As she raised her knuckles to knock on the heavy wood, the muffled sound of Darren’s voice froze her in place.

"I still can't believe it played out so perfectly. You’re brilliant, Whit."

Maren stopped breathing. She pressed her ear flat against the door panel.

Whitney laughed, a high, mocking sound. "Now we don't have to hide anymore. Dad literally begged me to marry you to save the family’s stock prices. Plus, I get the company and her entire trust fund."

The floor seemed to drop out from under Maren. She gripped the wall to stay upright.

"When Mom brought me the idea and sourced the sedatives to knock her out, I thought it was too risky," Whitney continued, her voice practically glowing with malicious glee. "I spent my whole life bowing down to the perfect little princess. Look who wears the crown now."

Betrayal ignited into a white-hot, explosive rage. Maren reached out, her fingers wrapping tightly around the cold brass door handle. She was going to tear it open and rip them apart.

Before she could twist the knob, the air shifted behind her.

A heavy, blunt object slammed violently into the back of her skull.

Agony exploded behind her eyes. Her vision rapidly dissolved into static, and the hallway went pitch black.