Skylar had always dreamed of this day.

Soft pink and white roses cascading from the ceiling, petals drifting like whispered blessings. A golden chandelier casting a warm, celestial glow. A gentle piano melody floating through the air, wrapping the room in a promise of forever.

She had pictured her mother wiping away tears of joy. Her father standing tall, brimming with quiet pride. Her sister, Phoebe, smiling at her side. Her brother, Mark, throwing in a teasing remark about her finally settling down.

That was the wedding of her dreams.

But this?

This was a nightmare.

The sharp gasps of the crowd faded into a dull roar in her ears. The air in the ballroom grew heavy, suffocating. Skylar's gaze was locked on the projector screen at the center of the stage—frozen, breathless.

The first image was a punch to the gut.

Ethan Walker. Her fiancé. Her love. Sprawled across a hotel bed, tangled in silk sheets.

The second image made her stomach churn.

He wasn't alone.

Phoebe. Her sister. Lying beside him, bare skin illuminated by the dim glow of the room, her limbs draped over him with the ease of a woman who had been there countless times before.

Skylar's lungs burned. The world tilted.

And then—

The date.

A tiny timestamp in the corner of the screen.

Two months ago.

During their engagement.

The room plunged into silence.

Then—

Laughter. Slow. Mocking. Cruel.

"Damn, Ethan! You really had the best of both worlds, huh?"

One of the groomsmen, drunk and oblivious, gripped the microphone with an amused smirk.

"One omega in your bed while the other planned the wedding? That's efficiency."

A murmur swept through the guests, whispers growing into a relentless storm.

"Did you see that?"

"Her own sister? How disgusting."

"Poor girl. What a humiliation…"

Skylar felt the color drain from her face. The weight of a hundred eyes crashed onto her, pressing her down.

Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. Her throat was dry, raw.

This wasn't real.

This wasn't happening.

Her hands trembled, nails digging into the fabric of her dress. A rising wave of nausea coiled in her stomach.

A voice shattered through the chaos.

"Skylar…"

Ethan.

Slowly, she turned to him.

His face was pale, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead. His hands twitched at his sides, as if reaching for something—someone.

"I—I can explain," he stammered.

Explain?

Explain what? That he had kissed her that morning, whispered devotion in her ear—while crawling into her sister's bed behind her back?

A sharp sting burned behind her eyes.

She forced herself to look at her family.

They would defend her. They had to.

Her mother. Her father. Her brother.

Someone—anyone—would tell her that this was a mistake. That this wasn't what it looked like.

But when her mother's gaze met hers, Skylar's stomach plummeted.

There was no fury. No disgust.

Only quiet disappointment.

Her father's face was carved from stone. Unmoved. Unforgiving.

And Phoebe—

Phoebe had the audacity to cry.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice delicate, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "It just… happened."

It just happened.

Like spilling a drink. Like misplacing a ring. Like betraying your sister was an accident.

Skylar swayed on her feet.

The ballroom seemed smaller. The walls closed in.

Why wasn't her father furious? Why wasn't her mother ashamed?

Why was Phoebe standing so close to Ethan, her hand brushing his sleeve like she belonged there?

And why…

Why wasn't anyone saying this was wrong?

Skylar felt the ground beneath her slipping away.

For the first time in her life, she felt like an outsider in her own family.

Then, a low chuckle sliced through the thick silence.

Mark.

Her brother stood with his arms crossed, a slow smirk curving his lips. His dark eyes gleamed, not in shock, but in amusement.

Like he had expected this.

Like he had been waiting for it.

His voice, smooth and razor-sharp, cut her apart.

"Oh, come on, Skylar. You didn't really think this was your wedding, did you?"

The floor vanished beneath her.

A sickening realization coiled around her throat.

They knew.

They all knew.

Phoebe's tears weren't guilt. They were an act.

Mark's amusement wasn't surprise. It was satisfaction.

Her mother and father weren't shocked, because they had already made their choice.

They had chosen Phoebe.

The walls pressed in. The air grew thick, suffocating.

The scent of roses turned sickeningly sweet, clinging to her lungs like poison.

The chandelier overhead blurred, its golden glow warping and twisting, the whole room distorting like a fever dream.

A high-pitched ringing screamed in her ears, drowning out the voices, the murmurs, the heartbeat pounding in her chest.

Her knees buckled.

Desperate, she reached out—for something, anything.

A hand brushed hers.

For one aching moment, hope flared.

Someone had reached for her. Someone would hold her up.

But the touch was fleeting. Cold.

And then it was gone.No one would catch her. Her body collapsed. Her vision darkened at the edges.

The last thing she saw before the world slipped away—

Was Phoebe stepping closer to Ethan, slipping her hand into his.

As if this had been their wedding all along.

She was the bride—but they had buried her instead

And then—Everything went black.