My Husband Left Me at the Altar to Save His First Love

Everyone in our world knew I’d been chasing Pierce Hayes since we were kids.

When he went to boarding school, I followed. When he decided to master eight languages, I mastered eight languages. When he majored in finance, I declared my major in finance. It was an open secret, a foregone conclusion. The Prescott and Hayes empires were so deeply entangled that a union between us was not a matter of if, but when.

Then, on our wedding day, on the way to the church, Pierce’s car took a detour. He drove straight to the airport and boarded a flight to save her—the ghost of his first love, the one that got away.

Our entire childhood, a lifetime of shared history, became the punchline to the year's cruelest joke.

Dressed in a custom Vera Wang that cost more than a penthouse, I walked down that aisle and completed our lavish wedding ceremony. Alone.

In the flood of press that followed, my name, for the first time in our lives, appeared before his.

Fool, they probably thought.

But men are a dime a dozen. A fully formed corporate empire? There’s only one of those.

And I wasn’t just hungry for his body. I was starving for his kingdom.

1

Pierce’s plane was in the air, and I had locked myself in the bridal suite, allowing a single tear to fall.

Beyond the door, I could hear my father’s rage, a storm of curses rattling the hallway. Mr. Hayes, his face a mask of fury, was barking into his phone, arranging for Pierce to be apprehended the second he landed.

Two texts lit up my screen.

The first was from Pierce: [Sloane, wait for me. I’ll make this right.]

The second was a photo of him, sent from an unknown number. He was at the gate, head bowed, phone pressed to his ear. He was still wearing the custom Tom Ford tuxedo I had spent months agonizing over with the tailor. The silk tie I’d chosen, a deep charcoal gray, was hanging loose around his neck.

His expression was tender, his eyes soft with an indulgence I knew so well, yet had never been directed at me. He was clearly murmuring reassurances to the person on the other end of the line. Anyone looking at him would have sighed and said that the girl he was comforting was the luckiest in the world.

I zoomed in, studying his face for a long, quiet moment.

It was a shame, truly. A waste.

But I had given him a choice, and he had made it. The pieces were on the board. There was no taking the move back.

I reapplied my makeup, smoothed down the silk of my gown, and gathered the ridiculously long train. Then I opened the door and faced the gauntlet of anxious, angry family members, a perfect smile fixed on my face.

“The wedding,” I announced, my voice clear and steady, “will proceed as planned.”

2

It was three days before Pierce returned.

For those seventy-two hours, I was a viral sensation. The tabloids, the financial news, every gossip blog online—they were all dissecting the story of Sloane Prescott, the heiress left at the altar who still went through with the entire, elaborate charade.

Some lamented the cold realities of the ultra-wealthy. Some championed my resilience. And, of course, some reveled in my humiliation.

Regardless, in the deluge of headlines, my name was finally billed before Pierce’s.

To show the depth of the Hayes family’s apology, my father-in-law, Mr. Hayes, Sr., hosted an intimate dinner to personally make amends to my family. As wine was poured and courtesies were exchanged, the atmosphere finally softened. Mr. Hayes, Sr. raised his glass to me.

“Sloane, this is from your father-in-law,” he said, his voice thick with sincerity. “You’re every bit your father’s daughter. Thank you. For your decisiveness, for seeing the bigger picture, for saving both our families from total disgrace. We wronged you, and I promise you, I will give you a full accounting for this.”

I raised my glass, my eyes demurely lowered. Just as I was about to speak, the doors to the private dining room swung open. Pierce stood there, travel-worn and exhausted.

My father’s face instantly darkened. He slammed his wine glass down on the table. The sprawling room fell silent.

Mr. Hayes, Sr. shot a look at my father, then gritted his teeth and barked at his son, “On your knees.”

Pierce walked, step by deliberate step, until he stood before my father. He gave a slight bow. “Dad,” he said, using the familial term, “I know what I did was wrong.”

My father just grunted, refusing to acknowledge him.

Pierce straightened up and placed a thick file on the table.

“I’ve come to make amends,” he said. “While I was in the States, I acted as a representative of the Prescott family—as Sloane’s husband—and I finalized the partnership with the Blackwood Group.”

3

Prescott Industries had been chasing the Blackwood deal for six months.

Every detail had been hammered out, but Blackwood kept dragging their feet on the final signature. We’d used every contact we had, but we couldn’t find a way to break the deadlock. My father had been losing sleep over it for months.

I had to hand it to him; Pierce knew how to play the game.

That contract was a monumental victory for my family’s company. My father’s anger was caught in his throat, a bitter pill he couldn’t swallow. He was trapped, unable to scowl at Pierce but unwilling to welcome him with a smile.

Pierce stood before him, hands at his sides, eyes lowered, a faint, confident smirk playing on his lips.

Mr. Hayes, Sr. let out a breath he’d been holding. He began to applaud. “Well, Robert,” he said to my father, “what do you think? My boy comes through, doesn’t he? Landed you the Blackwood deal in one fell swoop. That’s got to be worth something.”

Following his lead, the other guests at the table began a hesitant, then more enthusiastic round of applause. The tension in the room began to dissipate.

But you don’t get to publicly humiliate the Prescott family and expect to just wipe the slate clean, Pierce.

My brow furrowed and I felt my eyes well up with tears. I walked over to him and looked him up and down.

“Pierce,” I began, my voice trembling slightly. “You’re still in the tuxedo from… from that day. Were you working so hard taking care of Miss Collins that you didn’t even have time to change?”

The room went dead silent. The smile froze on Pierce’s face.

I forced a brittle smile of my own and gently pushed him toward the door. “You should go home, get a shower, change your clothes. Get some rest. Don’t worry,” I added, my voice catching. “I’ll handle things here.”

Behind me, a fist slammed on the table. I didn’t have to turn to know it was my father.

“Stay right where you are!” Mr. Hayes, Sr. roared. “You’re not going anywhere!”

The standoff was broken by a delicate figure bursting through the door and rushing between Pierce and me.

“Please, don’t be hard on him,” she cried. “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

4

It was her. The reason for all of this. His sainted first love, Anna Collins.

Even in the late autumn chill, she was wearing a thin, white cotton dress. Her frail body was trembling. In front of everyone, Pierce didn’t hesitate. He shrugged off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her, pulling her into his arms.

“I told you to wait in the car. Why did you come up here?” he murmured. “Are you cold?”

Anna’s face was ghostly pale. She leaned against his chest, her eyes red-rimmed. “Pierce, please don’t fight with your father because of me. It’s not worth it. I don’t have much time left. I can’t leave you with a mess.”

She’d barely finished the sentence before she was overcome by a wracking cough.

Pierce’s brow knitted into a tight knot. Without another word, he swept her up into his arms. “It’s okay, Anna. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

He started for the door, ignoring everyone else in the room, his head bent low as he whispered comforts to her.

“Pierce Hayes! You stop right there!” His father was apoplectic. “If you walk out that door, everything this family has built will have nothing to do with you!”

Pierce stopped. He turned, his gaze cold as ice as he stared down his father. “My biggest regret is letting you send her away all those years ago. You really think you can control me now like you did back then?”

Mr. Hayes, Sr.’s face turned a mottled shade of purple, but he was rendered speechless.

My father just shook his head. “It seems you’re no longer the one in charge of your own house, Edward.”

Pierce’s gaze shifted to my father, a smirk touching his lips. “Robert, the first thing I did when I got back wasn’t taking Anna to the hospital. It was bringing you that Blackwood contract. That is the ultimate proof of my commitment to the alliance between our families. There are some things better left unsaid.”

Then, he turned to me, his eyes devoid of any warmth.

“Sloane, I promised I’d marry you, and I did. The title of Mrs. Hayes is yours. I guarantee you a life of comfort and luxury. But affection? Don’t ever expect that from me.”

With that, he turned and carried Anna out of the room. As he left, she shifted in his arms, her head turning just enough to look back at me. Her lips curled into a tiny, triumphant smile.

5

Under the stunned gaze of our families, I finally let the tears fall.

Pierce and I had grown up together, our lives intertwined like honey and oil. I was his shadow, following him everywhere. I learned languages, business, equestrianism, and wine tasting because he did. I had no hobbies of my own. Pierce’s hobbies were Sloane’s hobbies.

Our families’ businesses had been inseparable for a generation. My father and his were partners, friends, rivals. Our marriage was the logical conclusion, a fact accepted by everyone.

The only disruption to that perfect plan came in our junior year of high school, when Anna Collins transferred to our class on a scholarship. She was like a wildflower growing in the ruins—delicate but tenacious. She effortlessly captured Pierce’s pity, which quickly blossomed into affection.

That budding high school romance was crushed before it could bloom. Mr. Hayes, Sr. intervened. Despite Pierce’s furious protests, Anna was sent to a school abroad, and his father made sure he lost all contact with her.

After that, Pierce became quiet, withdrawn. He channeled his silent rebellion into work, quickly growing into a formidable force and shouldering the weight of the Hayes Corporation.

When he proposed, I had asked him what he would do if Anna ever came back.

His eyes, full of starlight then, had been fixed on mine, deep and sincere. “Sloane, she was just an insignificant detour. Mrs. Hayes will be you. It can only be you.”

The ghost of his kiss on my eyelids that day still felt warm. In the blink of an eye, everything had changed.

6

I rarely cried in public. Seeing my tears was probably harder on my father than taking a punch. He lost all composure, unleashing a torrent of fury at Mr. Hayes, Sr. before my mother and he flanked me, guiding me out of the restaurant and back to my childhood home.

I didn’t forget to take the Blackwood contract with me.

Pierce never called. News of him and Anna came through my best friend, Chloe, my ever-reliable source for gossip.

Anna had cancer. She didn’t have long, but she refused to be hospitalized. Instead, she made a near-psychotic demand: to live in the marital home Pierce and I were supposed to share.

And Pierce, unbelievably, had agreed.

Chloe was practically vibrating with rage on my behalf. “Sloane! Aren’t you going to do anything? Doesn’t this make you furious?”

Furious?

I paused my work, placing a hand over my heart and closing my eyes for a moment. There was a dull ache, but it was distant. Manageable.

Seeing Chloe about to burst a blood vessel, I smiled and tapped her on the forehead. “The first payment milestone for the Blackwood deal is coming up. I need to stay on top of it. Money, my friend, is a hundred times more important than a man.”

Chloe made a disgusted sound. “Oh, please, Sloane! You’re not exactly hurting for cash! Between the Prescotts and the Hayeses, you could buy a small country!”

She looked like she was about to faint from secondhand frustration, so I decided to throw her a bone. “Don’t worry,” I said calmly. “This isn’t over. Anna Collins will be coming to see me very soon.”

7

As I predicted, my complete lack of reaction to her provocations made Anna impatient. She sought me out.

We sat in the cafe on the ground floor of the Prescott Industries building. I studied her for a moment before smiling. “You’re looking well, Miss Collins. It seems Pierce is taking excellent care of you.”

She slid her hand across the table toward me. On her wrist was a familiar jade bracelet.

“Recognize this, Mrs. Hayes? The Hayes family heirloom. If I recall correctly, Pierce gave this to you on the day he proposed.” She smirked. “It was pathetic, really, seeing it locked away in your safe, wrapped in velvet like some holy relic. All I had to do was admire it, and Pierce took it off your dresser and gave it to me. All you have is your family name, a title you use to chain him to you. Other than that, you have nothing. I, on the other hand, have everything but the title.”

Her arrogance was almost comical.

“Congratulations on living your dream, Miss Collins,” I said smoothly. “But there’s a small detail you might have overlooked, and I feel I should point it out. Mr. Hayes, Sr. sent you abroad all those years ago, and for a decade, you couldn’t reach Pierce no matter how hard you tried. Have you ever wondered who, precisely on the eve of my wedding, leaked the news to you? And why, after ten years of silence, Pierce’s number suddenly started working for you?”

Anna froze. Her eyes widened in disbelief. “It couldn’t have been you. You’d have to be insane.”

I leaned back in my chair, holding her gaze with a serene smile, and said nothing.

She stared at me, and after a moment, a flicker of uncertainty—of fear—crossed her face. She was panicking.

“Sloane, what is your endgame?”

I laughed as if she’d just told the funniest joke in the world. “Miss Collins, you just called me Mrs. Hayes. Do you even need to ask? Obviously, I intend to defend my marriage and protect my husband. I spent more than twenty years positioning myself to marry into the Hayes family. Do you really think I’d just hand him over to you?”

Anna’s face contorted with rage. She reached for her coffee cup, intending to throw it at me.

I slid a document across the table and placed it in front of her.

When she saw the letterhead and the words printed on it, the healthy color drained from her face, leaving it a stark, waxy white.

“You… you…!” she stammered. “How do you have this?”

I smiled, picked up my purse, and stood. “I’m not letting go, Miss Collins. May the best woman win.”

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