Trading My Cheap Fiancé For Gold Chapter 1

The ninety-ninth time he postponed our wedding.

That was when I called the coordinator and told them to swap my name out for his childhood sweetheart’s.

"Miss Delia, I understand what you're asking, but are you absolutely sure?" the planner’s voice crackled through the line, heavy with hesitation. "It actually seems like Mr. Keith isn't planning on pushing it back this time."

I stared at the PDF proof on my laptop screen.

Groom: Keith.

Bride: Delia.

But down in the designer’s notes, a single line of tiny text read: "Adjust the floral arrangements to the champagne-gold palette Fiona prefers."

Fiona. Keith’s childhood best friend.

He had assured me she was only offering a second opinion. Yet, every detail of this wedding—from the floral selection to the party favors, down to the walk-in track—had been decided by her. Even when it came to my wedding dress, she had merely glanced at it and offered a dismissive, "A mermaid cut would suit her better."

I dragged the design file into the trash bin on my desktop and replied, my voice flat and even: "I'm sure. Change the bride’s name to Fiona."

This wedding was so saturated with her presence that it was never mine to begin with. I was simply handing it over to them, fully intact. And in doing so, I was finally pulling myself out of this farce.

From here on, the world was wide. Let him cling to his old memories; I was going to find my own horizon.

* * *

"Understood. We'll make the adjustment immediately," the coordinator replied, her tone careful, almost tip-toeing. "But... should we notify Mr. Keith beforehand?"

I stared at the dark screen of my laptop. "No need."

I hung up, and the silence of the empty house settled over me.

I looked around the three-story townhouse in Brooklyn that Keith and I were supposed to move into next month. Every square inch of it was pristine, tailored, and expensive. But the French crystal chandelier hanging in the living room was only there because Fiona had deemed it "tasteful." The silk sheets in the master bedroom were chosen because Fiona said they were "better for the skin." Even the reed diffuser in the foyer was scented with Wild Bluebell—Fiona’s signature fragrance.

I felt like an intruder who had accidentally wandered into someone else’s private sanctuary.

Walking into the master bathroom to wash my face, my eyes caught a used Tom Ford lipstick sitting on the marble vanity. The shade was a deep, vintage crimson—the exact color Fiona always wore. Right next to it lay a delicate pearl earring.

I stared at that smudge of red on the gold casing. I knew exactly whose it was.

My phone vibrated, and a voice memo from Keith came through.

"Delia, the coordinator mentioned you called them a few times today. Is everything okay?"

I typed a quick reply: Nothing. Just checking on a few small details. It’s handled.

A few minutes passed before his brief reply came back: K.

Then, he sent a photo.

In it, Fiona was standing in front of a tri-fold mirror, wearing a stunning champagne-gold couture gown, looking back over her shoulder.

Fiona is trying on her bridesmaid dress, but the zipper got stuck. Just helping her with it. The shop has great pieces, but she’s having trouble deciding. Want to come over and help her look?

My hands grew cold as I stared at the message.

Just last week, I had gone to try on my wedding dress entirely alone. Locked in the dressing room, suffocating under the heavy, complex laces of a gown that didn't fit, I had called him in tears.

His background had been loud with traffic and chatter. "Delia, just ask one of the shop girls to help you. Fiona’s car broke down on the highway, and I need to go get her."

I had stood there in that ill-fitting mermaid dress—the one Fiona had picked out—under the pitying gaze of the boutique staff for thirty minutes before quietly changing back into my clothes.

And now, he was carefully adjusting the hem of her gown. He even wanted me there to play the appreciative audience.

I dialed his number.

"Are you on your way?" he asked as soon as he picked up.

"No," I said, my voice remarkably steady. "Keith, let’s call it off. The wedding—"

Before I could finish, Fiona’s playful, sweet voice drifted through the speaker.

"Keith, look at this one! Does it look good? Oh, stop staring at your phone and help me choose!"

Keith’s usually detached, cool tone softened instantly into something warm and indulgent. "Beautiful. Honestly, Fiona, anything you pick looks beautiful on you."

Then, seemingly remembering I was still on the line, he spoke back into the receiver. "What were you saying about the wedding? It’s already set, Delia. Stop trying to change things at the last minute."

"It's nothing," I said, a dry smile touching my lips. I didn't even have the energy to feel disappointed anymore. "Take your time helping her."

"Good. Fiona is the bridesmaid, and her dress represents my family's image today. I need to make sure it’s right. Don't be so sensitive."

He paused, perhaps sensing that his tone had been too sharp. "I just bought Fiona a ruby necklace, and the jeweler threw in a small diamond pendant as a promotional gift. I was going to refuse it, but Fiona thought it would look nice on you. I'll bring it back tonight."

"Delia!" Fiona’s voice cut in clearly. "Keith is such a typical guy, don't mind him. The freebie isn't anything spectacular, but I know you usually dress so simply, so I figured it would suit you perfectly. On the wedding day, we can both wear our necklaces. Think of it as my little blessing to you guys."

She wanted to stand beside me at the altar, parading the masterpiece while I wore the scrap, silently declaring to everyone in attendance who actually held Keith’s heart.

It had been like this ever since she returned from Canada a year ago.

When he traveled for business, he bought Fiona limited-edition handbags worth tens of thousands, but would only toss a discounted bottle of duty-free perfume onto my nightstand. Later, he postponed our wedding date again and again just to fly across the country to secure some rare art piece she wanted for her gallery.

When I confronted him, his defense was always entirely logical to him:

"Fiona grew up accustomed to the finer things. You don't really care about fashion anyway, so why does it matter? Besides, the wedding delays were accidents. Next time, I promise we won't push it."

And Fiona would always laugh, adding, "Oh, don't be so hard on her, Keith. Actually, Delia, I have some of the old gifts Keith gave me. If you want them, I can send them over."

"Thank you both," I said softly, and hung up the phone.

When disappointment reaches its absolute limit, even words feel like a waste of breath.

I went into the bedroom and opened the closet. More than half of it was filled with "status-appropriate" designer pieces Keith had purchased for me to wear to corporate events. The tags were still attached.

I reached for my old, battered suitcase—the one I had brought with me when I first moved in. I packed a few casual outfits, some daily essentials, and my laptop.

My phone lit up with a message from Victoria, my editor-in-chief at the magazine.

Delia, the transfer to the Paris bureau has been officially approved. Are you certain you want to leave tomorrow? Isn't tomorrow your wedding day?

I looked around the room, breathing in the faint scent of wild bluebells, my eyes resting on the vintage red lipstick on the counter.

Yes, I'm sure, I wrote back. Because there's going to be a different bride.