I shoved the cake.

CRASH.

Layers of sponge and cream exploded across the marble floor. Guests froze. A glob of frosting landed on Adrian’s tuxedo.

His face contorted in rage. “You—!”

Evelyn grabbed my wrist. “Run!”

We bolted through the chaos, barefoot, slipping through debris, toward the service entrance she had scouted. Men in suits—mercenaries, not security—pursued.

We reached her old sedan. Glass shattered. Tires screamed. Freedom.

Evelyn handed me a folder and a voice recorder.

I pressed play.

Adrian’s voice: “She’s perfect. Clean medical history, no ties that matter. Tonight, she disappears. The cake will do its work. Ship her. Harvest. My $5 million debt—cleared.”

I felt my stomach drop.

I wasn’t loved. I was an asset.

We went to the police. The frosting tested positive for lethal ketamine.

Sirens wailed at the conservatory. SWAT stormed in. Adrian tried to act. “Harper, sweetheart, it’s a misunderstanding—”

I walked up to him.

And slapped him.

“The performance is over.”

Officers cuffed him. His mercenaries were rounded up.

At dawn, I stood on the beach, burning my ruined wedding dress. The silk curled and blackened, the lace turning to ash.

Evelyn wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.

“I never needed a prince,” she said. “I only needed my sister alive.”

We watched the sun rise. The fairytale was gone. But truth—and each other—remained.