But her plan had backfired.
That night, back in our hotel suite, my wedding dress draped over a chair, I scrolled through the headlines:
“Bride implicated in mother-in-law’s collapse at luxury wedding.”
“Poisoned champagne scandal rocks the Ashford family.”
Photos flooded the internet Caroline crumpling to the floor, champagne spilling, and me standing behind her, smiling. No one truly knew who the victim was.
Three days later, I visited her at the hospital – VIP suite, ninth floor.
She looked weak but alive.
“Feeling better, Mrs.
Ashford?” I asked.
She gazed at me with hatred.
“I know what you tried to do,” I said evenly. “You wanted me humiliated, the media to destroy me, and Dylan to think I poisoned you.”
She gave a bitter smile.
“You think you’ve won? You’ll never belong in this family, Lori.
You’re nothing but a gold digger.”
I leaned closer, voice like ice.
“No, Caroline. The one about to lose everything is you.”
I played the recording from my phone and her voice from that morning:
“I’ve already given him the drug. Once he drinks it, it’ll all be over.”
Her face turned ghostly white.
“That recording and your text,” I continued, “are already with Revista Central.
You have 24 hours to resign from the Ashford board.
Otherwise, tomorrow the world will know who tried to poison the bride.”
She said nothing. I stood, smoothed my dress, and smiled.
“I didn’t come for revenge, Caroline. I came to war:n you.
You fired first and now it’s my turn.”
Three months later, I was sitting in my new office on the 32nd floor of Ashford Holdings.
Caroline had “resigned for health reasons.” Dylan remained loyal, convinced his mother’s collapse had been because of stress.
In the window’s reflection, I no longer saw an innocent bride, but a woman who understood that love and power often share the same face. At the bottom of my champagne glass, I kept a single white pill – a reminder that every marriage begins with a vow, but not all survive it.
It seemed over. Caroline vanished from the media.
I became the celebrated new Mrs.
Ashford, the family’s savior.
But I should’ve known that Caroline never stays buried.
One winter morning, a black envelope appeared on my desk. Inside, a handwritten note read:
“Everything you think you know is only half the story.”
Along with it and a photo of me, in my wedding dress, switching the glasses.
And beneath it:
“If I fall, you fall with me.”
My heart stopped. Caroline was alive and she was back.
That night, an anonymous email arrived:
“Meet me tomorrow at 9 p.m.
at the old Ashford mansion.”
Attached was a video – Caroline in a hospital bed, speaking to a man with his face hidden.
“He thinks he’s won,” she said, “but I still have an ace up my sleeve… and it carries the Ashford name.”
I zoomed in—the man wore the same wedding ring as Dylan.
I couldn’t believe it.
The next night, I went.
The mansion was dim, haunted by silence. Caroline stood in the living room, elegant and calm, like a ghost who’d never left.
“You came quickly, Lori,” she said.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Justice,” she answered. “You ruined me in the press.
I just want to return the favor.”
She slid a folder across the table – fake financial documents with my signature, reports of fra:ud.
“I bought these.
One call, and you’ll be charged with embezzlement. Unless,” she paused, “you leave Dylan tonight.”
I walked out into the rain, shaking.
If she released them, I’d lose everything. But she didn’t know that I had recorded our entire conversation.
That night, I sent the audio to the journalist.
Subject line: The End of the Toast.
The next morning, the headlines erupted again:
“Caroline Ashford accused of blackmail and corporate fraud.”
“Ashford empire on the verge of collapse.”
Caroline was arrested.
Dylan wept.
And once again, I was the innocent wife in everyone’s eyes.
When he came home that night, voice trembling, he asked, “Lori… did you know about this?”
I stroked his cheek and whispered, “We all pay for our actions, Dylan.”
He hugged me tightly. I smiled behind his shoulder.
The war was finally over.
And I was the one who won.
