You Weren’t Invited to My Wedding, Ex! - Chapter 69: Chapter 69

DULCIE’S POV
I stared at the goddamn blood-red rose sitting pretty on my designer table like it owned the place. Nasty little thing came in a velvet box with a gold-trimmed note. I already knew who it was from the second I saw it. The scent? Expensive. Dramatic. Petty.
“A woman like you doesn’t get a happy ending. You took mine. Now I take yours.”
– E.V
E. My ass. It was Danica! That bitch. I could smell her bitterness.
I stood there in my silky white robe—yes, bridal couture, thank you very much—and hurled that box across the room like I was pitching in the damn World Series. The glass shattered all over the marble floor. My heels crunched over it when I stomped toward the bar cart and poured myself three fingers of scotch.
I needed it. My husband—the freshly minted Mr. Dulcie fucking Titanis? Missing.
“Reagan!” I screamed into my phone. No answer.
Oh, the nerve of that man. He left me at our wedding reception. OUR wedding. Walked the hell out like I was some side piece. I used to be, sure. Back when it was spicy. Fun. Secret. Back when he had to sneak me into luxury hotels and whisper dirty things into my ear like I was his guilty pleasure.
Now? Now I'm the wife. The queen. And guess what? It’s boring as shit.
And the worst part? That lingering itch in the back of my mind. The whispers. The damn rumors.
“Danica’s alive.”
“Someone saw her at the reception.”
“There was a woman in white, hotter than the bride.”
Hotter than me? Please. I invented hot. But that ghost-bitch? She just wouldn’t stay dead.
I paced the suite in my heels, sipping my drink, smoking a cigarette I swore I’d quit a year ago. I stared at myself in the mirror. Flawless. Perfect body. Hair like silk. Lips plumped to perfection. I had her life now.
So why the hell didn’t I feel satisfied?
“Because I worked for this,” I muttered. “I fucking earned this crown.”
But still. That note. That damn flower. That chill that crawled up my spine like Danica’s cold fingers still lingered around my neck.
I needed a distraction. A better one.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled until I hit John.
Yes. John. Reagan’s daddy. Daddy in more ways than one, if you catch my drift.
I smirked as I hit call.
“Dulcie,” he answered, that deep voice of his already stirring something warm and wild in me.
“John,” I cooed. “I need to blow off some steam.”
“You always do.”
“Send the driver.”
He didn’t even hesitate.
***
John’s penthouse always smelled like leather, cigars, and secrets. He opened the door wearing nothing but slacks and that smug look I liked so much.
“Rough night?” he asked, closing the door behind me.
“You could say that.” I dropped my coat. Nothing underneath but lace and rage.
“Let me guess. Reagan being a little boy again?”
I walked straight into his arms. “Your son ran off. Left me at the damn altar with paparazzi, gossip hounds, and her ghost. But yeah, I managed to register our marriage but still fuck him for leaving me!"
John’s lips curled as his hands slid down my waist. “Then let me remind you what a real man does.”
And oh, he did. The night blurred into sweat, moans, and me riding the storm out like the queen I was. He made me forget—for a while.
Until my phone buzzed.
I rolled over, panting, heart still racing. Checked the message.
Unknown Number:
“Congratulations on your wedding. I’d love to meet and discuss a potential collaboration. Dinner next week at Le Jardin. My treat. – Alyssa”
I blinked.
“Business?” John mumbled, lighting a cigar beside me.
“Alyssa, that rich bitch wants to meet,” I muttered, reading the text again.
Le Jardin. Only the fanciest, most disgustingly exclusive place in Europe. Reservation costs more than a car. I arched a brow.
“Oh, she’s trying to impress me.”
“Careful,” John said lazily. “Could be Danica playing dress-up.”
I laughed. “She’s dead, babe. Besides, what’s she gonna do? Haunt my wine glass?”
Still… I replied.
“Of course. Can’t wait. See you there.”
Game on.
And if she was alive? Good.
Let the bitch come out of hiding. I was ready for her. I had her man, her name, her fucking life. What more could I take?
Everything.
John took a long drag from his cigar, exhaling smoke into the ceiling like he owned the damn stars.
“You know,” he said casually, eyes flicking to me, “I could’ve married you.”
I raised a perfectly sculpted brow, still wrapped in satin sheets and afterglow. “Oh?”
He gave that signature De Santis smirk. The one Reagan inherited but never quite mastered. “Yeah. I told you once. You remember? You said you wanted a crown. I said I could give you one.”
I laughed—sharp, cruel, amused. “I remember. I also remember laughing in your face.”
John arched an eyebrow. “And yet here you are.”
I leaned over, pressing my lips to the rim of my scotch glass before whispering, “I married Reagan because he was Danica’s husband. Her everything. I didn’t want a new kingdom—I wanted hers.”
He stared at me for a beat. Then chuckled darkly. “You’re a wicked little thing.”
I smirked. “That’s why you like me.”
“I do like you. Especially when you scream my name louder than my son's.”
I laughed—genuine this time. “Well, credit where it’s due. You’ve got experience. Reagan’s been… disappointing lately. Always whining, always asking when I’m getting pregnant.” I rolled my eyes. “So boring.”
John leaned back, teeth flashing like a wolf’s. “Why not tell him the truth?”
I stilled.
He exhaled slowly, watching me from under hooded lids. “That you can’t have kids. That your uterus was removed two years ago in that hush-hush surgery in Switzerland. That you’ll never give him the legacy he’s desperate for.”
My jaw clenched. “You promised never to bring that up, idiot!"
“I didn’t promise not to slap you with reality.”
“You bastard.”
“And you’re a liar,” he said smoothly, tapping ash into a crystal tray. “So what? We’re even.”
I threw the covers off, climbed out of bed, grabbing my coat with fury burning in every step. “You think you can talk to me like that?”
“I do talk to you like that,” he said, unbothered. “Because you like it. Because you know I’m the only one who knows the real you—and still wants you anyway.”
I paused at the door. Hair messy. Lipstick smudged. Pride cracked.
He looked at me. Calm. Cold.
“Danica had the crown,” he said. “But you? You’re the shadow trying it on.”
I didn’t say a word.
Just left. Heeled fury echoing through the marble halls. I wasn’t shaken.
I was reminded. Of what I had to protect.
And what I had left to destroy. Let Danica come.
Because the next time we’re face to face, there’ll be no white dresses. Only red.