After my client threw champagne at my 68-year-old seamstress and threatened us, she accidentally dropped a burner phone detailing her plot to poison the groom at the altar.

The line rang four times. Each chime sounded like a countdown to an explosion in my ear.

"Vance," a deep, gravelly voice answered. It was clipped, exhausted, and devoid of the polished warmth he usually displayed in front of the press cameras.

"Mr. Vance," I said, keeping my tone as level as humanly possible. "My name is Avery Clark. I am the owner and head designer at Clark Couture."

There was a heavy pause on the other end. A rustle of papers. "Miss Clark. If this is about Vanessa’s demands for the veil lace, my assistant handles vendor disputes. I am in the middle of a board meeting—"

"This isn't about lace, Mr. Vance," I interrupted, my voice dropping to a whisper. "And you need to step away from your board meeting right now. Are you in a private room?"

Silence stretched over the line. I could hear the faint murmur of corporate chatter in the background, followed by the sound of a heavy door clicking shut and the muffling of footsteps on deep carpet.

"What is this?" Julian’s voice had lost its dismissive edge; it was now dangerously sharp. "If this is some kind of extortion scheme regarding the wedding press rights—"

"Your fiancée dropped a secondary phone in my atelier fifteen minutes ago after throwing champagne in my seamstress's face," I cut in. "I have it in my hand. It is receiving encrypted messages from someone who claims the poison is already placed in your toast flask. They are discussing an altered prenup and a foreign shell company in her maiden name."

The silence on the line became absolute. For five full seconds, I wasn't even sure if he was still there.

"Read me the last message," Julian said. The warmth was gone; his tone was pure steel.

I read it word for word.

I heard the sharp intake of his breath. "Where are you?"

"In my shop. Fifth Avenue. The blinds are drawn."

"Do not leave," Julian ordered. "Do not call the police yet. If Vanessa realizes she dropped that phone, her contact will pull the trigger on whatever fallback plan they have. I will be at your back alley entrance in twelve minutes. Don't open the door for anyone else."

The line went dead.

Twelve minutes.

I ran to the back room, checked on Clara, and made her sit with a cup of chamomile tea. I told her the situation was under control, though every instinct in my body screamed that the nightmare had barely begun.

Precisely eleven minutes later, three rhythmic taps echoed against the heavy steel delivery door in the rear alleyway.

I peeked through the peephole. Standing under the flickering amber light of the alley was Julian Vance. He wasn't wearing his usual bespoke tuxedo or designer suit. He had on a dark charcoal wool coat, a black turtleneck, and rain-flecked hair. He was alone. No bodyguards. No entourage.

I turned the heavy deadbolt and swung the door open.

Julian stepped inside swiftly, his eyes scanning the shadows of the loading corridor before landing on me. In person, without the flash of paparazzi bulbs, he looked worn down. Deep shadows bruised the hollows beneath his gray-blue eyes, and his jaw was shadowed with stubble. He looked like a man who hadn't slept a full night in months.

"Miss Clark," he nodded, his eyes locked on mine.

Without a word, I reached into my coat and handed him the black burner phone.

Julian took it. His fingers brushed against mine—they were ice-cold. He woke the screen and read the three unread notifications. His knuckles turned stark white against the matte plastic case.

"She really is doing it," he murmured, more to himself than to me. A bitter, humorless smile curled at the corner of his lips. "She couldn't even wait until the honeymoon."

"You... you knew?" I stared at him, bewildered. "You knew she was trying to kill you?"

"I knew she was working with someone to destroy me," Julian said, his voice quiet, filled with an ancient weariness. "I didn't think they’d resort to cyanide before the ink on the marriage certificate was dry."

"Then why in God’s name are you marrying her?" I demanded. "Why didn't you cancel this months ago?"

Julian looked up from the screen, his piercing gaze pinning me to the floorboards.

"Because six months ago, my father died in a suspicious hit-and-run in upstate New York," he whispered. "And two weeks later, Vanessa approached me with photographs proving that the car belonged to her family’s private garage. She told me that if I didn't marry her and grant her power of attorney over the Vance estate, the evidence would disappear forever, and my father's killer would walk free."

I gasped. "She blackmailed you into an engagement?"

"She trapped me," Julian said coldly. "And until twenty minutes ago, I thought I was walking into an impossible corner. But this phone... this is the first time her partner has slipped up."

Suddenly, the phone vibrated in Julian’s hand again.

A new message flashed across the glass:

**"Meet me at the warehouse on 14th Street. 11 PM. Bring the USB drive. Avery Clark must be handled tonight. She saw too much."**