You Weren’t Invited to My Wedding, Ex! - Chapter 67: Chapter 67

THREE YEARS LATER.
Europe bled elegance in spring. Every rooftop terrace dripped in diamonds and champagne, every silk-gloved handshake sealed deals that would make or break empires. And I stood at the center of it all—reborn, untouchable, cloaked in secrets.
They knew me as Elysia Voss now.
No one remembered the girl locked in a basement, stripped of power, carrying a secret sonogram in her chest like a ticking time bomb.
Tonight was the night.
The fashion world called it La Renaissance Écarlate—The Scarlet Rebirth. An invitation-only gala in a private château outside Paris. The elite clawed for a spot. Editors, designers, diplomats, royalty. But only the most carefully chosen names made the guest list.
Including one snake in sequins: Dulcie.
I smiled as I read her RSVP. “Accepted.”
Of course she accepted. Validation was her religion. She’d burn her own name in gold just to hear applause. She didn’t even question why an anonymous patron was suddenly obsessed with her designs. Or why I’d promised to invest millions in her next line. Three years had passed and she was still a greedy little moth. Couldn’t resist the flame.
I stood in the gallery an hour before the doors opened, heels silent on marble floors, inspecting every installation. I didn’t just want her humiliated. I wanted her soul cracked open in front of everyone who ever mattered to her.
One piece featured a mannequin wearing a tattered wedding dress, its lace burned, its bouquet wilted. Above it: "The Loyal Lie."
Another showed a cradle, filled not with a baby—but with cold, jagged glass. A plaque read: "Promises You Cannot Bear."
There was more. Oh, there was more.
Every corner of the gala whispered back her sins—betrayal, manipulation, the twisted path she carved through my life with a smile on her lips.
Salvatore stepped beside me, dressed in a tailored black suit that made him look like sin come to life. “She won’t know what hit her,” he murmured.
“That’s the point,” I said. “Let her arrive thinking she’s the star.”
He handed me a phone. “The rumors are spreading. I leaked the false accounting reports this morning. Money laundering through shell companies. All roads lead to her.”
“And the investors?”
“Panicking,” he said with a smirk. “She’s getting calls. Probably thinks it’s a misunderstanding. Poor thing.”
I laughed. “Let her drown in it. She built her empire on stolen crowns. I’m just tipping the balance.”
Salvatore tilted his head. “You ready?”
“I’ve been ready since the day she called my father’s dead eyes a joke.”
The lights dimmed. The music swelled. The first guests arrived.
I disappeared into the shadows like smoke—watching from behind mirrored glass as the vultures flocked in their gowns and tuxedos, ready to worship what they thought was fashion’s next revolution.
Then she walked in.
Dulcie.
Draped in a red satin gown that hugged her surgically altered frame like a desperate scream. Her hair was slicked back, lips blood-dark, eyes darting for the cameras. She was hungry. For fame, for relevance, for validation.
She got none of it.
At first, people smiled—recognizing her, nodding. But then they began noticing the displays. The eerie themes. The quotes etched in gold:
"Fertility is not fashion."
"Even angels can lie."
"The crown you wear belongs to a corpse."
Dulcie stiffened by the third exhibit. Her steps slowed. Her eyes flicked nervously across the room. She passed a video screen playing grainy footage—someone’s shadowed figure slipping out the back of a burning house. A voiceover whispered, “What you kill may come back wearing a prettier face.”
Panic began to crack through her.
She turned to leave—and walked straight into a reporter.
“Dulcie!” The woman chirped, microphone already out. “Care to comment on the financial investigation? We’ve received word your funding may be tied to illegal syndicates—any truth to that?”
Dulcie blinked. Froze.
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“Oh, but Elysia Voss is your backer, isn’t she?” the reporter asked sweetly. “She has quite the reputation in exclusive circles. Elusive, brilliant… dangerous.”
Dulcie’s face turned ghost-pale. “I’ve never even met her—”
“Yet you accepted millions from her.”
“Excuse me,” Dulcie snapped, pushing past her. “Excuse me!”
She vanished down the hallway like a storm cloud wrapped in silk.
Salvatore appeared beside me again, sipping his drink, eyes gleaming. “She’s unraveling.”
“She hasn’t even hit the floor yet.”
“I thought you wanted to take her slowly?”
“I am. This is foreplay.”
He laughed low in his throat. “Remind me never to cross you.”
I smiled but didn’t answer. My eyes followed Dulcie through a hidden camera feed—storming into the staff hallway, yanking off her earrings, muttering to herself.
“Who the fuck is Elysia Voss?!” she hissed. “Why does she know that—why is this about me?”
I leaned in toward the screen and whispered, “Because it was always about you. And what you stole from me.”
She stumbled into a mirror, gasping when she saw the words etched into it in red paint:
"You remember now, don’t you?"
I whispered to myself, “Good girl.”
The feed cut.
I turned to Salvatore. “We pull the plug on the funding next week. Let her scramble. Then drop the press bomb. Everything goes public.”
“And Reagan?” he asked.
My smile turned venomous. “He’s next. But I want him to watch her fall first. I want him to realize I was never the weak one.”
Salvatore raised his glass. “To Elysia Voss. The ghost of vengeance.”
I clinked mine against his.
“To Danica,” I corrected. “The woman who never truly died.”
I walked away from the party I created—leaving Dulcie to drown in the mirror maze of her guilt and fear.
Tomorrow the headlines would eat her alive.
And I wouldn’t even need to lift a finger.
I had already won.
And this? This was only the beginning.