The Billionaire's Broken Bride

Ariana POV I never thought I’d be the kind of woman who cries over a wedding dress. But earlier tonight, when I hung it carefully by the window of my hotel suite, I felt tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. Not from sadness. Just... joy. Tomorrow, I would finally marry the man I loved. After years of late nights, missed calls, and sacrifices, we were here. Everything was ready. The flowers, the venue, the playlist, the dress. Even the weather forecast looked perfect. Miguel Santos. Just thinking of his name made my chest swell. He wasn’t the most expressive man — often buried in meetings or glued to his phone — but I knew he loved me. In his own quiet way. He always reminded me to eat when I skipped meals, drove me to my events when I was too tired, and kissed my forehead after every argument, even the ones he clearly didn’t understand. For a man like him, that was love. My phone buzzed beside the bed. A message from Camille. > “Just left Miguel’s unit. Forgot to bring the envelope for the coordinator. Can you pick it up instead? Sorry, bestie!” I stared at her name for a second, then smiled. Camille had always been a bit forgetful, but she meant well. She was my maid of honor, my college best friend, and the only person who saw me cry when Miguel and I broke up for three weeks last year. Of course I’d do this for her. I changed into a simple dress, slipped into flats, and left the hotel with a pastry box I picked up downstairs. I figured I’d surprise Miguel too — just a short visit. A goodnight kiss before the madness of tomorrow. I still remember the hallway of Miguel’s condo building. The way my steps echoed down the marble floor. My heart was light, my hands slightly trembling from excitement. He didn’t know I was coming — I wanted to see his face when he opened the door. Only, the door was already open. Just a crack. Miguel was terrible with locks, so I didn’t think much of it. I pushed it gently, letting myself in. The lights were dimmed, like he had just fallen asleep. “Babe?” I called out softly, placing the pastry box on the counter. No answer. I walked further in, passing the living room, where one of my framed photos still stood on the shelf. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air — familiar, grounding. Then I heard it. A soft sound. A woman’s laugh. Muffled, intimate. Followed by a low groan. I froze. It came from the bedroom. Every part of me wanted to turn around and leave. Pretend I didn’t hear anything. Pretend I was just imagining things. But I walked toward the door anyway. And when I looked through the small opening, my heart stopped. Camille. On top of him. Her nails digging into Miguel’s shoulders, her lips brushing his jaw. His hands wrapped around her like she was the only woman in the world. I stood there. Unable to move. Unable to speak. It was like my brain refused to process what my eyes were seeing. I wanted to believe it was a mistake. A dream. A hallucination. But it wasn’t. When Camille finally saw me standing there, she didn’t flinch. Didn’t panic. She just looked annoyed. Like I was the one interrupting something sacred. And Miguel? He looked... surprised. Not guilty. Not ashamed. “Ariana—wait—” I didn’t. I turned and walked out before he could say another word. I didn’t slam the door. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even let a single tear fall. I walked calmly down the hallway, down the elevator, past the lobby guard who smiled at me like nothing was wrong. The world was still spinning. But mine had stopped. — Now, here I was, three hours later, sitting alone at a bar I didn’t even know the name of. Somewhere in Bonifacio High Street. Dim, smoky, cold. The kind of place Miguel would never take me to. I had already downed two drinks, and the third was on its way. The bartender gave me a few wary glances, probably wondering what a woman in a silky white robe with smeared lipstick was doing alone, drinking like the world ended. Because for me, it did. “Rough night?” The voice came from my right. Deep. Calm. Masculine. I turned, expecting a random drunk or someone trying to flirt. Instead, I saw a man in a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a Rolex glinting under the bar light. He looked calm, put-together — but his eyes were dark, unreadable. He didn’t smile. Just watched me. “Is it that obvious?” I asked, voice hoarse. He nodded once. “Only people who’ve been hurt drink like they want to forget everything.” I gave a weak chuckle. “You’re not wrong.” He tilted his glass. “I’ve been there.” “I was supposed to get married tomorrow,” I said before I could stop myself. The words just came out, raw and unfiltered. His brows rose slightly. “Turns out,” I continued, “my groom was busy… with my maid of honor.” Silence. Then the man said, without a hint of sarcasm, “He must be the dumbest man alive.” I stared at him. It wasn’t pity in his voice. Just truth. Cold and simple. I took another sip of my drink. “You’re not going to tell me it’ll be okay?” “No,” he said. “Because it won’t be. Not for a while.” I blinked. “Wow. Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine.” “I don’t do sunshine,” he replied. “But I do offer solutions.” I tilted my head. “And what solution would you offer a runaway bride?” He looked at me, eyes sharp. “Marry me instead.”