I didn’t confront Alex that night. Instead, I played the perfect fiancée while secretly consulting a lawyer. My inheritance, including my late mother’s lake house, was legally mine, but any signature could make me vulnerable.Two days before the wedding, Alex handed me a prenup, disguising it as “standard paperwork.” Buried in the fine print was a property transfer. I smiled and promised to sign it on our wedding day.

At the altar, just before the vows, I took the microphone. “Before I become Mrs. Evans, I want to thank Alex and Martha for showing me who they truly are.” Then, I pressed play on my phone. Their scheming voices echoed through the venue. Gasps filled the garden.Martha lunged forward. Alex paled. I dropped the prenup between us. “There’s not going to be a wedding.”I walked away, leaving Alex humiliated and Martha scrambling. Days later, Martha called, pleading for sympathy. I hung up. Instead, I sent Alex a framed photo of the lake house with a note: “You’ll never see it again.”