My Fiancé Chose His Ex On Our Wedding Day

From the back cover

My hands were my entire career, the key to my life as one of New York's top hand models. My fiancé, Chase, had plucked me from a small town and given me a world of glamour. I thought I owed him everything.

Then his high school sweetheart, Karis, gave me a "luxury" treatment at her salon that left my hands with chemical burns, destroying my ten-year career overnight.

Chase called it an "accident" and defended her. He told me Karis was so upset she might have to join him on our honeymoon to St. Barts to feel better. At our rehearsal dinner, when Karis suggested I'd hurt myself for attention, Chase publicly shamed me for upsetting her. His bachelor party turned out to be a private date with her.

I found the prenup he wanted me to sign: if we divorced, I'd get nothing. But the final blow came the night before our wedding. As he slept, he grabbed my arm and whispered her name.

"Karis... don't go."

I realized then I was just a stand-in, a warm body in the dark. My love for him had been a survival strategy in a world he built for me, and I was finally suffocating.

The next morning, on our wedding day, I didn't walk down the aisle. I walked out the door with nothing but my passport and made a call I hadn't made in fifteen years. An hour later, I was on my way to a private jet, leaving my old life to burn behind me.