Claire Winters

Three days. That’s how close I was to marrying Alistair, the man I’d loved for six years, the man whose life I’d literally saved with my own rare blood. I was just admiring the final pearl on my wedding dress, a gown I’d poured my soul into, when he called.

The wedding? Off. He was marrying my stepsister, Ivy. Her dying wish, he said. Six months to live, maybe less.

The kicker? He’d already taken my wedding dress from my studio for her.

Just like that, six years, countless transfusions, our shared dreams – all tossed aside for the girl who’d made my life a living hell since childhood. He even offered me “compensation,” as if my future had a price tag.

But if Alistair and Ivy thought I’d just crumble, they seriously underestimated me. They wanted my fiancé? Fine. But it would cost them. First, our multi-million-dollar fashion company, Evening Gala – built on my designs, my vision. He signed it over. Then, a cool million for the stolen dress. He paid. Another million for the wedding jewelry they dared to ask me to hand over for Ivy. Cha-ching.

You’d think they’d learn. But no. Their next proposal was the most insulting yet: Alistair actually suggested that I should just wait. That after Ivy’s ‘inevitable’ passing in a few months, he and I could just pick up where we left off, have an even better wedding. Seriously?

Enough was enough. If Ivy wanted to play bride with my life, she was going to get a taste of what happens when you push someone too far. Let's just say her hospital room celebration involved a lot more smoke, water, and screaming than she bargained for, all thanks to a little wedding gift from yours truly.

Now they know I’m not the same Hazel they could walk all over. I’ve got my company, a pile of their cash, and a whole lot of scores to settle. They think this is over? This game of revenge is just getting started. And believe me, I play to win.

The Billionaire's Dangerous Redemption

"Let's start with the black one," I said, handing Sebastian the garment bag. "The changing room is just through there."


I pointed to a door at the far end of the studio, trying to keep my voice steady and professional. This was just business—a routine fitting for an important client. Nothing more.


Sebastian took the suit with a nod and disappeared into the changing room. The moment the door clicked shut, I released the breath I'd been holding. My hands trembled slightly as I gathered my measuring tape and pins. 


What was wrong with me? I'd fitted countless men for suits before. But none of them had been Sebastian Sinclair.


While waiting, I busied myself organizing fabric swatches, but my mind wandered treacherously. I pictured Sebastian in a different setting—not my client in a studio, but in a home we shared. Him getting dressed for work while I adjusted his tie. Morning coffee together before the day began.


The Awkward Intimacy of a Suit Fitting